Under the Crimson Flag
by You-drive-me-nuts-miller
Summary: Desperately running away from her past, Emma disguises herself as a boy and seeks an escape in the freedom of the open seas. All is well until she crosses paths with the infamous Captain Hook.
1. No Quarter

Her lips were dry and beginning to crack. Beads of sweat ran down her neck. The burning gaze of the sun was relentless: her thick cotton shirt clung to her back as waves of sickness rose in time with the rising temperature. The crushing binding around her chest made it hard to breathe as she pulled the thick, coarse rope over the gunwale. Each motion increased the ache between her shoulders and further numbed her tired fingers. Both palms were now criss-crossed with fine scratches so that the salty water of the ocean stung and burned her skin.

Though her fair face was red raw, her body soaked and her muscles exhausted - Emma smiled.

_She was free._

* * *

She scratched at the tufts of hair that clung to her neck and pulled her cap tighter over her ears.

The tavern was busy.

Hidden in a darkened corner, she hunched over the steaming bowl of stew, avoiding the gaze of those around her. They were mostly men: seasoned sailors with thick beards and tall tales. They laughed, smoked pipes and dealt cards - becoming louder with each sip of rum. Occasionally a bar wench walked by with a flagon of ale and offered to fill her tankard, but she shook her head and remained silent. She sat and watched and marveled.

In her old life she had seen nothing like this. There she had been hidden away - trapped - _protected _they had said. The adjustment to this world - the real world - had been difficult at first. She had learned to be wary, keep to herself, only interact with those she needed to. Yet still she was fascinated by their coarse words, bawdy tales and the simple earthy reality of these men of the sea.

Finally, sated enough that the only ache left was the glowing burn the sun had left behind on her skin, she pulled a few coins from her pocket and slipped out into the cool night.

Outside she decided to wander and lose herself in the narrow lanes of the part of town where they currently were docked. Its tall buildings and dark spaces provided a comforting anonymity. It had been weeks since she had been alone. The tender she had taken was a good one - a small crew, a long distance - perfect for her purpose of removing herself as far away as possible from the Enchanted Forest_._ But she longed to bathe, to remove her bindings and brush out her hair. Her fingers lingered at her cropped locks. They scraped the nape of her neck - tucked behind her ears and covered with a woolen cap. She tugged it off as she wandered - letting her fingers massage her scalp - relishing in the feeling of freedom.

In a small town square behind the tavern there was a stone well. Sitting on the low surrounding wall, she lowered its small bucket, claiming a pail of chilled water that she eagerly palmed over her face. Momentarily the burn on her skin diminished and she let the cool liquid trickily down her neck and over her chest.

Sighing, she lay back against the hoist, staring up at the dark night sky. Its infinite darkness calmed her in the moments when she began to feel regret. She liked to lie on deck and watch the twinkling of the constellations against the velvety black of the sky at night - occasionally veiled by a puff of faint cloud.

This was why she had to leave. Sweet freedom.

The vastness of possibility stretched out before her like an unwritten page. No longer was her life planned out for her in a series of orchestrated moves as though she were a chess piece. No. Now she made her own decisions.

And in some ways that was almost as terrifying as having no choice at all.

* * *

They were out on the open sea early the next morning eager to reach the next port - the quicker they changed cargoes the great the profit for a merchant seaman.

Once at sail, Emma was set to work showing the two young boys who they had picked up in port the ropes. Both were not yet in their teen years and even Emma towered above them. They looked awkward in their too big caps and baggy linen shirts.

"Do you have any questions?" Emma asked as they returned to the deck. They looked at each other uncertainly before shaking their heads. She felt sorry for them - clearly they were here to earn money for their kin. Most port families had at least one or two sons at sea. But still, they seemed so young.

After setting them to work scrubbing down the decks, she returned to her post checking the rigging.

A few minutes later a voice cried out, "Jack!"

"Aye, Captain!"

Stumbling to her feet, she raced across the deck towards the voice.

Captain Avery was a short, stout man. No more than 50, but with greying hair, a long beard and cracked skin that spoke of a life at sea. More often than not he stank of rum. Most days he rarely rose before noon, leaving the ship in the hands of his first mate, Walters. But when he was awake and on deck, Emma knew he was not to be trifled with. He had a nasty tempter and an even nastier set of cat-o-nine tails.

"Where's my sextant?"

"Pardon, Captain?"

"Are you deaf, boy?" he growled, rapping the back of his hand across her ear until she winced in pain. "My sextant. It was in my cabin."

"I'm sorry sir, I have no idea…"

Emma recoiled a little as she saw his face curl into a wicked snarl. He was still drunk, she could clearly see from his bloodshot eyes and pink cheeks, probably had no idea what he was doing.

"Liar," he spat, baring his teeth.

She flinched, tensing her muscles, anticipating another whack around the head - it seemed she had been chosen as his whipping boy for the day.

"Captain! Captain!"

The cries from the crow's next tore away his attention. High on the mast, a scrawny boy was waving his arms and gesturing to a point high on the horizon.

Growling, Avery stomped to the bow and pulled out his telescope.

Emma squinted against the morning sun that was now high in the sky, covering her eyes with her hand as she strained to see what had caused such consternation.

Then there is was: a flicker, a flash.

Blood red, lit from behind by the sun - like a glowing ruby. A flag. A red flag.

Emma sucked in a breath and felt her stomach drop. _Pirates._

* * *

Heavy breathing.

Shouting.

The crisp clash of metal.

The muffled crack of musket fire.

She ran across deck - her heart racing, two full buckets of water in her arms. The lower aft sail had begun to burn. She tossed the contents of the bucket at the crackling fire but it had little effect - merely eliciting a soft hiss of defiance from the flames.

Exhausted, she stumbled back towards the water butt.

The ship was almost upon them. The speed of its advancement had taken the crew by surprise. Avery dashed about - bellowing harsh demands, his face red and swollen. Walters was little calmer - pitching in himself to raise the sails higher in an attempt to raise some speed.

But Emma knew it was useless.

Her kingdom had had one of the best navys in all the realms and she knew this ship was old and slow compared to the lithe manoeuvrability of their approaching boat glided through the sea as if it were silk. Soon she could see the pink blurs of faces, then the rigging ropes of their sails came into focus, until finally they were at their side. Boarding ladders were hung, shots fired, screams rose, blackened smoke filled the air - then, darkness…

* * *

Her hands were tied behind her back.

Her head ached, a dull throb at her brow. She winced.

Something must have hit her head. She wriggled against the ropes and they dug into her skin.

Carefully, she peeled open her eyes and looked around. The deck was awash with the crimson dampness of spilled blood. She saw their attackers checking the few bodies that lay around her. They gave each one a swift kick to the side or head before they were heaved over the gunwale into the water. Glancing to her left, she was just in time to see the battered and bloodied face of Captain Avery before it disappeared over the helm. Her stomach clenched in fear.

Beside her were a few other crew - Smith the chef and the young lads they had just collected in port. They looked at each other: the boys were shaking a little, their eyes wide and glassy. Smith's face was fixed in a firm grimace. Breath shaking, she looked back towards their attackers.

"Captain on deck!" came a cry from behind them.

Emma straightened up. Praying her hat was still pulled down, curving her shoulders to hide her bound chest. She didn't know how, or if, she was going to survive this, but the thought of them discovering she was a woman filled her with dread. She had heard what happened to women in the hands of pirates. It was a fate worse than death.

She dipped her head, eyes focusing on a discarded dagger that lay in a bubbling pool of watery blood. Heavy footsteps rounded the small group.

Her heart was hammering against her chest now. She clenched her fists until the crescents of her nails pinched each palm.

"On your feet for the Captain!"

Suddenly she felt harsh fingers digging into her shoulder and pulling her roughly to stand.

To her right she heard Smith swear and hiss before he spat a large glob of spittle on the deck.

"Mind your mouth!" called the same voice - she looked up and saw it belonged to a tall, thin man - a patch over his eye and a red bandana around his head.

"Make me," sneered Smith.

Emma wanted to quiet him, tell him to back down. Instead he stepped forward and the next thing she knew a sword was being drawn by the pirate, quickly piercing his stomach until he curled over into a ball as the blade withdrew. Blood began to seep across the deck, mingling with that which was already there and Smith moaned in agony. Emma froze.

"Well that was unfortunate," came another voice, silky and deep.

It belonged to the owner of the heavy footsteps from a moment ago. Emma's gaze trailed across the deck towards its source.

Black boots. A heavy leather coat that reached past his ankles. At the end of both sleeves, each cuff was edged in heavy brocade. She caught her breath when she saw his left hand ended in a gleaming, silver hook.

She had heard of this pirate. HIs reputation reached even to the Enchanted Forest and her kingdom - even though he and his ship had never been sighted in their waters. He was famous for giving no quarter to those he captured. The pirate with one hand - _Captain Hook_.

"Well, what do we have here?" he laughed, his eyes dancing over the three figures. Emma tried to step in front of them - shield them from his gaze with her body.

None of the three replied.

"Well, speak up boys!"

The smaller of the two boys was shaking, small tears running down his cheek. "Please sir, captain, please don't kill me. Please." Softly, he began to sob. She hazarded a glance at the pirate captain. His face and hair were dark to match his reputation, but she could have sworn she saw a flicker of something pass over his face - something lighter.

"Well boy, today you may be in luck. It is true that I take no quarter under normal circumstances - releasing my captives is not good for the reputation!"

A deep rumbling laughter arose from his fellow pirates.

"But you see I find myself in need of a couple of deck hands ahead of a long voyage. So which two of you are going to join my crew?"

The three looked at each other, Emma saw her own fear reflected in the boys faces. She knew what they thought, what would happen to the other one…

Her stomach lurched.

"What about the other?" Emma asked, her own voice surprising her with how calm it sounded.

The captain gazed down at her. She met his eyes - they were bluer than the sea. They seemed so out of place within all the dark and leather that enveloped his body.

"What do you think?" he purred, running his tongue along his bottom lip as he spoke.

_Death. _

She felt flat and dull. The two boys were crying harder now.

So that was it. Her freedom had lasted less than six months. There was no choice. She couldn't let harm come to them.

"Take the boys. They are young, they have done no wrong."

A few heavy steps and she felt cool metal under her chin, raising her head.

She looked into his eyes again. Now they were so close. She could see their dark rim of kohl and the deep blue that banded the lighter azure. They were almost hypnotising. Deadly even.

"And who do we have here?"

"Jack," she croaked, "Jack Swan. Deck hand."

"Hmm," he mused, tilting his head and raising his brow. The tip of his hook nicked her neck as he tilted it higher and she felt a cool trickle of blood roll down her throat. "Quite brave for a deck hand."

"Bravery is not reserved for officers, captain," she replied flatly, refusing to break her gaze.

And damn him he smiled. A broad, wicked smile full of pearly white teeth which made her want to pull back in fear.

"So it seems." His eyes flickered over her face and she swallowed slowly. Her heart was beating so heavily in her chest she was sure he must be able to hear it. His lips curved into a half smile and he raised a brow. It was almost as if he were mocking her.

But then the mask of amusement dropped and she saw a sliver of something else - something true and real beneath the pirate's gaze. Her brow furrowed as a moment passed in silent observation.

Then, with a small laugh he dropped her chin and walked away, pausing at the bow for a few seconds before he twisted on his heel.

"Change of plan. The boys will do as deck hands. But you - I think I want you as my cabin boy. Can you clean?"

She nodded briefly.

"Polish?"

She nodded again.

"Good," he smiled.

With no further words he walked away and Emma's knees collapsed beneath her. The two boys clung to her arms as their sobs became more muted.

She watched him walk away, sinking slowly back to her knees, the throb in her head returning and blocking out all thoughts and worries.

She had survived. For now.

**Please review if you can... I'd like to know your thoughts on this story!**


	2. Jack

A/N _Okay - just a heads up, the POV will change throughout this story. This chapter is from Hook's POV. Just a short chapter today - this was so hard to write for some reason! Next chapter we pick up from Emma's POV._

Sleep was an all too rare release for him. He could not recall the last night he had slept through without waking at some ungodly hour - well, not counting those drunken stupors he often found himself when accompanied to his quarters by a bottle of rum.

Around his small cabin the evidence of long burned candles and books half read were testament to the hours the captain spent wiling away the darkness of night, unable to succumb to the sweet peace of slumber. Yet trying to occupy his mind with soothing words was a futile exercise.

That night was like so many more that had come before: painful insomnia followed by a few hours of fitful, broken sleep that ended as the first rays of daylight broke through the small, square windows that looked out over the aft of the ship. Dawning consciousness was accompanied by the pounding ache of a tired mind and dull, leaden limbs that begged for respite.

So many sleepless nights had taken their toll. He knew his eyes sagged and he had been even sharper with his crew than usual - something that irked him as he had always considered himself a fair captain. Well, for a pirate.

Up on deck he could hear the sounds of the first men waking and attending to their posts. He sighed and turned onto his stomach so his face was buried in the feather pillow upon which he lay. His hands slid under the fabric and circled around a small pouch - velvet and tied with a piece of silk cord. Pulling it to himself, he quickly unraveled the closure and poured the contents onto the bed. A small silver ring, inlaid with jade. A lock of brown hair tied with a blue ribbon. A small glass perfume vial, long since empty.

He pulled the lock of hair through his fingers a few times. It was still soft but showing the signs of age - the color had dulled a little and the strands had started to fray and thin. He rubbed it against his cheek before bringing it to his lips and placing a kiss upon the curl. Next, he slipped the ring onto his smallest finger and used his thumb to turn it slowly. He remembered when she bought that ring - it was in some port in a distant kingdom he couldn't recall the name of. He'd told her to barter but she had her heart set on it and paid the vendor an obscene sum. His gaze focused on the squares of jade that were set along the surface: almost the color of her eyes.

Finally, he pulled the small cork stopper from the perfume. Bringing it to his nose, he inhaled deeply. The scent of flowers mixed with spicy, exotic notes filled his senses and brought a memory to the forefront of his mind: there she was, sitting at his desk, brushing out her hair, smiling at him, _Milah_-

His heart felt tight and he quickly closed the bottle and placed the items back in the pouch, stowing them inside his pillow: hidden, safe.

This was his ritual. Every morning, without fail. This was his promise to himself - he would never forget her. Never. And one day he would find those responsible for her death.

His leather pants were lying at the bottom of his bed and he tugged them on, loosely lacing them before sitting at his desk. There was a small, worn mirror in front of him. He observed himself carefully - his eyes were as dim as ever, their blue fading into a slate grey. It was getting harder to hide his tiredness.

He pulled the lid from the pot of kohl beside the mirror and picked up the pointed wooden tool he used to outline his eyes. His tongue darted out and moistened the tip before he dipped it in the powder until it formed into a thick paste which he began to expertly apply to the edges of his lids. Every stroke brought with it darkness - an air of mystery almost. He felt the demeanor of his rank descending - pirate captain: dark, ruthless and deadly.

The task compete, he stood and turned to the small chest to his right, sliding open one of the ancient drawers - the oak whining slightly in protest. Just as he was reaching for a shirt, there was a rustling at his door followed by the creaking twist of a lock opening and the sound of wood scraping against wood.

Turning, he scowled as he saw his intruder.

"Oh,"the boy paused and his mouth dropped open, "Captain, I'm sorry! I thought-"

Anger bristled inside - blended with fatigue and the remnants of faded grief. "What are you doing, you cretin? Are you so uncivilized as to not know manners? Knock!"The words were especially harsh and biting making the boy flinch and the captain felt a small twinge of triumph flush through his veins.

He saw the boy shake and his cheeks blush: he looked young, Killian thought. Not yet of the age to shave, small with a queer, quiet sort of voice. Somewhat odd, but nothing much surprised the seaman after half a life spent on the ocean.

"Thought what?"he cried, widening his eyes and twisting his mouth into a pronounced snarl.

"Please captain, I beg your forgiveness,"the boy dipped his head and pulled off his cap, clutching it to his chest. It revealed a short mop of light golden hair that hung over the boy's eyes like a curtain.

He was shaking. That pleased him.

"Consider yourself warned, boy. Next time I will not be so _generous. _Now get the fuck out of here!"

Nodding, the boy quickly backed out and closed the door with a loud click.

Alone again, Killian looked at himself in the mirror. His anger had brought out a slight flush of color. He smiled and went back to pulling on his shirt.

* * *

One tanned hand rested upon the wheel as his hook circled one of the spokes, gently tilting it from time to time as he stared out at the endless blue ocean. Despite its beauty and the soothing scent of the sea air, he felt numb.

The sea, once his constant comfort, was now almost a torment. Time had seemed to blend into itself, becoming a blur of events with little distinction between each day, week or even year. Days spent commanding his crew and seeking bounty. Nights in celebration of spoils, an evening in port with a woman or two to warm his bed, then off again. It was all he had ever dreamed of as a boy - leading his own crew, the freedom of the seas…But for some time now it had left a bitter taste in his mouth.

It had begun when she had died. He had mourned. He had drank. He had cursed the heads of those who had caused her death.

He had damned himself in that order too: for in a way, he had played his hand in her fate. He had attacked the ship, he had gotten greedy when he saw a royal standard…

Reaching for his flask of rum, he pushed the thoughts away.

"Smee!"

The small, rotund crewman came bumbling over, his red woolen cap bobbing on his head as he made his way.

"I haven't got all day,"he scolded, unlatching his hook from the wheel.

"Yes, Captain?"panted Smee, pushing his cap back from where it had fallen over his eyes.

A bored expression crossed Killian's face as he looked over his shoulder to the men working on mending the sails at the port side of the ship. "How long until we reach Arcadia Island?"

Smee fumbled in his pockets, muttering to himself until he pulled out a greasy, creased piece of parchment. "Well, sir, according to the map we found in port, Blake insists it's less than 12 hours journey south of here."

"Hmm,"murmured Killian, bringing his hook up to scratch at his beard, "Nightfall will soon be upon us. Tell Blake to keep us anchored out of port until sunrise - I want the whole island to know I have arrived. Make sure the flag is hoisted high."

"Aye Captain, any other orders?"

His mind told him to make some quip, a belittling remark to remind his inferior of his place, but instead he straightened his back and released the wheel, "Take over,"he commanded, "I have matters to attend to."

"Yes sir,"nodded Smee.

Quick, heavy steps led him to his cabin. He shucked off his heavy coat and sighed. His muscles ached from lack of sleep and his skin was parched from a day spent on deck. Yanking open the cabin door, he barked, "Boy!"

Scrambled footsteps ended when the figure of his new cabin boy stood at the top of the short ladder to the deck.

"I am to take a bath. Make the preparations."

The boy nodded, scampering away as Killian closed the door.

Busying himself, he pulled off his boots as the heavy, tin bath, that only he used, was hauled into the room. Sitting at his desk, he watched with disinterest as wooden pails of water were carried into the room and poured into it - the level slowly rising as he undid the leather straps of his brace and began to pull off his shirt.

Emptying on final bucket, the boy paused, bucket swinging nervously in his hands, his eyes on the floor.

"Is there anything else, sir?"

Killian tossed his shirt to the bed, watching the boy out of the corner of his eye. "Can you read?"he asked, his fingers working at the laces of his pants.

"Yes sir,"whispered the boy.

"An educated sailor, interesting," mused Killian. Licking his lips, he stretched up his arms and yawned, "Well then, you can be of some further use boy. Rather than risk a volume's destruction in these waters, you may read to me."

"Aye, Captain,"the boy mumbled, shuffling on his feet as he took the book Killian held out to him.

The boy stepped back to rest on the rungs of the ladder. Killian turned and looked at him, "Something the matter boy?"he asked, the boy's eyes still trained on the floor.

"No-no…"

"Whatever then has happened to the foolishly brave lad who stood up to me the other day?"

"Just a little out of sorts, Captain, I apologize,"he replied as he slid his fingers through the pages of the book. "Gulliver's Travels," he whispered.

"You know it?"

"Yes sir, it was one of my favourite books as a child. I always dreamed, like Gulliver did, of traveling and seeing the world…"

Killian cocked up his head and saw a strange expression cross the boy's face. One of whimsy mixed with a flash of pain. He briefly wondered what the boy's story was. Every crewman had one. Mostly they were sad tales that had turned into bitter memories, shared over flagons of ale. He felt no pity for these men, life is hard after all, but perhaps one day he would ask the boy what had haunted him at so young an age.

Easing out of his leather trousers, he grabbed his washcloth and soap from his dresser and sank into the lukewarm water with a deep sigh. "Chapter four,"he commanded.

The boy's quiet voice was oddly soothing and melodic. He read with the practised fluidity that was rare in a seaman. Each word was wrapped in his soft accent - Enchanted Forest he surmised - and the found himself being lulled into a peaceful state. Killian closed his eyes and the words became indistinct as exhaustion began to overwhelm him.

Suddenly he flashed open his eyes, clawing for consciousness. Pushing away the urge to sleep, he grabbed the cloth and the gnarled bar of soap and began to wash over his body in quick, rough strokes.

The voice stopped and Killian looked up.

"That's the end of the chapter,"the boy explained, still avoiding the captain's gaze, "Shall I continue?"

Sighing, Killian brushed the soap over the cloth and shook his head, "No boy, that's enough."He gave a tense smile as the boy stood and made to leave.

"Captain?"he asked, "May I ask something?" His voice was a little louder, a little braver. Killian raised his head and looked at the boy, he was holding the book to his chest. He was slight - smaller than he had earlier realised. But his countenance was noble, his cheeks high and his mouth pink - flushed with youth, pretty almost…

"Go on."

"Jack, sir. My name is Jack. You keep calling me boy, so perhaps you had forgotten. If we are to be acquainted so, we should perhaps be on more familiar terms."

"Of course, boy- Jack. If you are to be my cabin lad, a name would be useful. You may call me Captain Jones." Killian paused and began to work the cloth over his chest, "Where do you bunk now?"

"In the hold sir, with the other low seamen."

Killian straightened his leg and rested it on the edge of the bath, sending out a wave of water that had Jack stepping backwards towards the door with a small yelp. Killian raised his brow in amusement.

"Well that is of no use to me lad. There is a small cabin, well perhaps more a cupboard just outside these quarters. I will need you there to tend to my needs."

"Yes, Captain,"he nodded, "I shall make the arrangements."

"Good."

Jack turned and placed his foot not the small ladder to the door.

"And Jack?"asked Killian as he sat up straighter in the water, "I'm a light sleeper so expect to be needed at any hour."

He nodded once more and quickly exited the cabin.

**Reviews are so valuable to me and appreciated!**


	3. Hindsight

It was getting harder with each passing day.

In hindsight, the decision she had taken to turn to the sea for her escape had been a hasty one. Flavored, indeed, by the stories she had read of adventures upon the high seas that had filled a whole section of books in the great library at home.

A ship was a claustrophobic atmosphere at the best of times. But the Jolly Roger was a hundred times more oppressing than any of the other tenders she had acquired over the preceding six months. The quarters were crowded: in the lower hold 20 men shared a space perhaps fit for ten. The lack of even a semblance of privacy was challenging. It added to the general tense air and underlying aggression that seemed to flow among the crew.

Perhaps she should have chosen to escape into the forests or the mountains. She had been told of the wandering bands who lived in these places; heard tales of how they sometimes took in lone travelers and assimilated them into their ranks. Perhaps…

But, it was too late for regrets.

She was still shaking a little from today's encounters with the captain. For all she had stood up against him to protect the young boys when the ship was taken, she knew well enough to be fearful of this man.

His reputation was infamous and news of his deeds had spread as far as the Enchanted Forest - far inland from any port. Tales of murder, thievery and blackmail swirled around the local taverns and the lower quarters of the castle. Folk who live a quiet life are keen to indulge in the more salacious stories that are bandied around. So much that Emma knew that every bawdy tale must be taken with at least a healthy pinch of salt. Still, she knew pirates were to be feared and fear him she did.

Never having met a pirate captain, she was unsure what to expect, but she knew to fear. However, she had found him confusing in his demeanor. One moment he was shouting and aggressive, then in another instant he was quiet, calm, almost pensive.

She couldn't deny that he was handsome - well, more so than the toothless and scarred band of men who crewed the ship. While she was reading, she had snuck a glance at him while he bathed. His skin was darkened form the sun and covered in a layer of light hair; lean muscles lined his torso. He looked strong. Indeed he was not the first man she had seen bare - she was not so innocent was one would expect a princess to see - but still, she was fascinated.

There had been men - well, boys really. Although she had resisted all attempts at finding her a suitor, she was past her teen years and keenly felt the yearnings of a woman. A dalliance with a stable boy here, stolen kisses with the miller's son who brought that grain had led to her a growing hunger for greater carnal knowledge that had been satisfied one night by a young lieutenant in the realms army when he had snuck into her quarters. And he hadn't been the last of her conquests.

But looking at this pirate -this strapping man, she felt a different stirring than these stolen moments had provided her. While they had been young - enthusiastic, yes, but young, this man's body bore the evidence of a life lived. Those men she had touched and explored, had soft, mostly bare skin, their bodies quivered when she touched them, almost seemed afraid of her, in awe perhaps.

She imagined, with a pirate such things would be different. For a moment her mind envisaged his strong arms around her waist, being pressed against his firm chest and rubbing her cheek over the chest hair that so fascinated her. Perhaps he would let his lips trail over her body - how divine would that beard feel scraping her skin. Then his hand and hook would explore the rest of her…

No, he was a pirate. She must shake those thoughts away.

_Pirates._

Was she a pirate now? Perhaps she was. The thought inadvertently made her smile - imagining look on her stepmother's face should the news make it back to her. It was one thing to be a runaway princess, but the scandal of her turning to piracy would make quite the intrigue around court.

Yet in honesty, she knew she was nothing more than a glorified prisoner: trapped on this ship with no means of escape. The tales of what pirates did to deserters had also passed by her ears and she shivered at the memory of shark infested waters and men being garroted and hung from the stern as a warning to others. And she a woman, too - gods, she could only imagine what terrors would await her if she were discovered.

So, it was with some relief that Emma began to prepare the small room that was to be her cabin - stringing across her hammock and hanging her small bag of belongings on a nail that dug into the coarse wooden walls. The space was small, with one tiny, circular window that did not open. At least this afforded some light - the hold had been dark and the whale oil lamps that had lit it were smoky and made everything stink with the scent of burnt blubber.

The sun had long dipped below the horizon by the time she had finished emptying the captain's cabin of the bath and removed herself to her own space. She found a small candle on a shelf that lined one side of the room - she blew away the layer of grey dust that coated it and searched in her pockets for a match.

The candle cast a warm glow over the room. Quiet, so quiet. Just the creak of timbers and the occasional crash of a wave against the hull.

Emma let her body relax for the first time in days. Reaching under her shirt, she began to unravel the long strip of linen that was binding her small breasts to her chest, sucking in a deep breath at the freedom. Dipping her hand in her bag, she pulled out the small worn volume - the only book she had cared to bring with her.

Settling into the hammock, she ran a finger across the faded, gilded title that was embossed into the red fabric cover, 'Gulliver's Travels'. Smiling, she opened the book and began to read.

* * *

_The Enchanted Forest - six months earlier_

Sliding her fingers between the thick, velvet folds of her dress, they quickly circled the cold metal of the scissors. They were heavy - dressmaking shears stolen from her seamstress's workroom that afternoon, after she had visited upon the guise of requesting a new riding habit. When Mathilde's back was turned, she had pocketed the item, hiding her theft with a sunny smile.

So now she stood in front of the long, gilded mirror that hung from one wall. One finger slipped through the handle and she dangled the shears at her side, letting them swing softly as she ran her fingers through her hair with the other hand.

With her finger and thumb, she rolled a few strands together, sadly watching the way they glinted in the candlelight of her room. A tear gathered in the corner of her eye as she steeled herself for what she must do.

What a silly, sentimental girl, she thought. Becoming upset over a few locks! She knew that to hide herself, she needed to try and pass as a boy and that was simply impossible with a tumbling mane of golden hair.

Her mind wandered back to her younger days. Sitting on her mother's knee while she ran a brush through her hair and told her tales of fighting ogres and witches, then she would twist the strands into elaborate braids and kiss her goodnight. How she missed her.

Swallowing the lump in her throat, she pulled her hair over her shoulder and began to plait it, tying the hair at both ends with strips of blue ribbon. She slipped off her gown, tossing it over a chair until she was stood just in her white cotton chemise. With slight hesitation, she picked up the shears again, hand shaking as she brought them to the nape of her neck. Widening the blades, her heart began to race as she readied them, poised around her locks.

She couldn't look. Tightly squeezing her eyes shut, she pressed the scissors closed, flinching at the loud snip as they sliced though her hair. Instantly, she felt tendrils begin to curl around her face. Peeling open an eye, she ran her tongue over her lips: the damage was done. No use crying now over vanity. Resolved, she brought the blades back to her neck and continued her task.

Minutes later it was done. In one hand her shorn braid, in the other, the scissors - covered in small pieces of blonde hair. She dropped them to the table and reached up to tuck the remaining strands behind her ears. Better, she thought, but still feminine looking.

She walked over the chest at the foot of her bed, unlocking it with the small key she kept around her neck on a long, hidden chain. Inside were more of the fruits of the past few weeks of work.

Two sets of boys clothes - cobbled together from items stolen from the laundry and the stable boys quarters. Thick linen shirts and hyde trousers with patterned scarves to wrap around her neck. Underneath laid a pair of battered boots - a little large, but fine enough for her purpose - and finally a brown, twill jacket and a leather napsack.

Tugging off her chemise, she stared at her naked form in the mirror one last time. Her curves and pale skin - so prized in a princess - were now to be hidden. For how long, she did not know. Long enough to get far away - wherever that was.

From the bag, she pulled out a strip of linen she had made by shredding a bed sheet and slowly, carefully wrapped it around her chest. It was a little painful and she was thankful for her modest bust. She wrapped the material around her body five or six times before she was happy, tucking the end in upon itself; turning her body to the side and checking her shape.

As a princess, she had been taught to pull her shoulders back and hold her head high, but she soon saw that to disguise her figure further, curved shoulders and a dipped chin were necessities.

Happy enough, she tugged on the loose clothing, knotting the trousers at her waist with a thick leather belt and tucking in the shirt before tugging out enough material to negate the possibility of the bandages being seen.

Finally, she reached into the bag and pulled out a grey, woolen cap. The wool was thick. She pulled it over her head - it did a good job of covering her hair, only a few strands sipped below it. With her fingers, she lowered the hat until it hid her eyebrows and most of her head.

Swallowing, she looked at her transformed self.

She certainly no longer looked like a princess. But a boy - a sailor? She wasn't sure. To be true, she was too clean: she needed to dirty her face and hands.

It was too late to worry about such things now. Tonight was the night and within the hour her escape would be made.

Moving over to her bed, she sat and waited.

* * *

"Boy!"

The banging on the door shook Emma from her slumber. The copy of 'Gulliver's Travels' slipped from her fingers and thudded to the floor.

For a moment she was lost - where was she? This was not her chambers, her room-

The memory dawned like a wave. Pushing back her hair, she grabbed her hat, stumbling for the door just as it swung open.

"Boy! I've been calling for you for an age."

"Sorry Captain, I was asleep-"

"Don't waste my time with your excuses," he hissed, giving her a steely eyed stare. "Here," he snapped, thrusting a long, black pair of boots into her hands. "Polish these, we are going ashore."

Her mind spun. _Ashore?_

"Sir, Captain - I thought we were to be a sea for weeks-"

"A minor diversion," the captain replied, his eyes dropping from her face to her half open shirt. Instantly Emma's hands went to her chest, gathering together the open sides in one palm, holding the boots tight against her body. Suddenly she was acutely aware of her breasts - her nipples hardened in the cool air, and perhaps a little due to his gaze upon her. She prayed he couldn't see-

A curious look crossed his face, before he stepped back, turning to his cabin.

"We make shore in an hour," he barked, as heavy footsteps led him away.

_**Thank you for all your wonderful support and reviews - I appreciate them more than you could ever know!**_


	4. Shore Leave - Part 1

_**A/N - Thank you for all the wonderful reviews/follows/favourites! This chapter had a lot of 'plot' but I promise next chapter is all about our pirate and our princess!**_

"Captain, is this stop really necessary? We took on supplies not ten days ago and-"

"Are you questioning my command?"Killian sneered, leaning over the smaller man.

"No - not at all Captain, it's just the men, well, they were hoping to learn more of our purpose for this journey."

Across the deck, the anchor was being hauled in. The sky had turned a burnt orange shade as the sun began to peek over the horizon. In the distance lay the shadowed outline of Arcadia Island.

"All in due course, Mr. Smee. Tell them to man their posts and they will be rewarded. Question me and, well, there will be consequences…"

"Of course, Sir,"Smee nodded. He turned to leave and then hesitated, his fingers pulling on the wool cap that covered his ears. His feet shuffled against the roughened planks of the deck as he chewed on his lip.

"Spit it out,"hissed Killian - his annoyance at the dawdling seaman expressed by an exasperated sigh.

Stepping closer, Smee dipped his voice, "Is this about her, sir? I mean, we tracked down the last man from that ship over a year ago-"

"Mind your mouth! You _know_ you are never to speak of her,"growled Killian, stepping closer, turning his head to look aft of the ship as he brought his lips near the other man's ear, "My motivations are my own and private they shall remain until I see fit to do otherwise. Is that clear?" As he spoke, he reached inside his thick leather coat and pulled out a leather covered flask from the small internal pocket.

"Yes, sir, I meant no offense, sir-"

"Leave,"spat Killian, as he tugged on the cork stopper of his flask and sank back a mouthful of spiced rum, running his tongue over the sticky residue that coated his lips.

The quivering crewman backed away, shoulders hunched and holding the captains gaze for moment with a worried brow, until he turned on his hell and hurried below deck.

Killian took a final look across at the island before he turned and stalked back to his cabin.

Slamming the door, he sat at his desk: the lacquered surface was covered in deep pitted marks and the color was faded - hinting at a long and eventful past. Producing a small, dark key from his pocket, he slid it into the keyhole that lay semi-hidden on the desk's side. The drawer needed a little coaxing to open, the wood groaning and squeaking as it pushed against itself, but finally when it was open a little, he dipped in his fingers and pulled out a small, leather purse.

He quickly unfastened the silver buckle that held it closed and shook the item to release its contents onto the desk. _Revenge, _he smiled to himself.

Mr. Smee was perhaps more perceptive that he gave him credit for. Yes, this was mission of vengeance, but no - not for her, not for Milah. Her honor was reclaimed the day the last man from the ship that had taken her life had walked the plank into shark-infested waters. That day he had made his peace with her fate. Well - almost.

The silver pendant on the desk twinkled in the early morning light that was filtering into his cabin. He picked it up and ran his fingers over the rounded nugget, half the size of a doubloon. The metal was smooth under his thumb and cold to the touch. He turned in over - punched into the other side was a simple design: a swan surrounded by a circle. Tangling his fingers into the chain, he tightened his fingers around the necklace.

"Brother,"he whispered into his fist, "Now is your turn. I have nearly found him."

He thought back to the day Liam had died. Gods, it had been eight years almost.

Liam had gone ashore alone to barter - despite Killian's protests he had assured him he was more than capable of taking care of himself. The men were needed to prepare the ship for their next journey. He was the captain, after all, and Killian had reluctantly agreed.

Hours later, he still had not returned. The crew had gone to search the small town they had laid anchor aside. Into the night they looked, bearing torches when dusk had fallen. Panic had begun to rise in Killian, finding its substance when the barely breathing body of Captain Liam Jones had been discovered, partially hidden in scrubland at the edge of the town.

He spoke no words - his throat pierced in such a way it rendered it impossible. But in his hands was a purse - the same purse now locked in this drawer.

Killian had cradled his brother in his arms as he bled to death from a series of dagger wounds to his chest and stomach. The blood. All that blood…Crimson as the pirate flag, it had stained his hands for days. As he took his last breath he had stared into Killian's eyes, his own darkening as the seconds tick by, finally slipping closed as all strength escaped his body.

So it had fallen on Killian then to be captain of the Jolly Roger. A job he was perhaps ill experience for in the best of circumstances, being somewhat young and foolish- having always deferred to his older brother's judgement in the past.

And in his grief, he became reckless - attacking ships with little preparation, engaging in risky behavior and treating his crew with a manner bordering on contempt. To all who observed, he seemed set on joining his brother in a young death. Even losing his hand in a sword fight with a band of barbarianshad not even checked him.

She had saved him.

Milah.

They had met in a tavern, in a seedier part of the Eastern realm. He had been attracted to her instantly - with her glossy dark curls and bright blue eyes - and when she had taken him for the contents of his purse in a game of dice, he was smitten.

When she was around, his sorrow had lifted. He'd tucked away the purse; almost forgotten it.

Until she wasn't there anymore, killed in an attack gone wrong and he was alone again.

And now was the time to find the story of this necklace. It was unique; he had shown it to many merchants in the interceding years with no success. But he knew it held the key to his brother's murder.

After many enquiries, he had been given information about a jeweler on this island where they docked, a specialist in unique items and a craftsman of unique talent.

Slipping the pendant back into the pouch, he pushed it inside of his vest.

In his gut he felt a certainty that today he would finally get some answers - today he would be on the trail to discover the truth about his brother's murder.

* * *

"Come on boy, we don't have all day."

Emma hurried after the captain, the heavy bundle on her back pressing into her spine as she dodged puddles and rocks on the roughhewn path from the dock. She watched with dismay as the boots she had polished to a glossy shine were splashed with muddy water as the captain carelessly stomped ahead. A wave of irritation rose that she struggled to bite back - now was not the time to make herself disagreeable to his man. But perhaps one day she would be able to reveal her true grit and fire.

"Coming sir,"she panted, wondering why a stronger man hadn't been chosen for this task. Emma was tall for a girl, but still narrow in the shoulders and slighter than a man. Certainly slight of build, for a boy. There were many other crewmen on the ship with more obvious strength and stamina. She sighed in frustration and pushed on.

They reached the settlement soon thereafter. It was old - ancient even. The buildings were in a style with which she was not familiar: greyed walls that must once have been white and flat roofs that hung over each doorway in a sort of veranda.

The streets were quiet. Only a few people made their way, carrying baskets and wrapped in cloaks as they went about their business. The ground here was not much better than the trail from the dock - worn cobbles were pressed into the soil, weeds and grass peeking through their cracks. Many of the stones were missing. One had to be careful not to misstep and take a tumble and twist an ankle.

All around, the atmosphere felt eerie and it was ghostly quiet. The place seemed like it may have been grand once - she spied the peeling remnants of elaborate painted murals on some of the walls and broken panes of colored glass that decorated small windows above each door. Climbing plants and vines crawled up the walls of many of the buildings, giving the place an abandoned, almost jungle like, air.

Scattered from place to place were ruined statues and monuments - they looked to be made from a kind of blue stone that she had never seen before. It was weathered and worn: some looked as though they could once have been people, but were now they were lacking limbs and their faces had been smoothed into nothingness.

"What is this place?"she muttered without realizing.

Ahead of her, the captain stopped and looked back. "This, my boy, is Arcadia Island - well, what's left of it. Once the capital of a great empire that stretched over many realms."

"What happened to it?"

She wanted to slap her hand over her mouth for being so familiar - but he didn't seem to mind. Instead he turned to face her.

"No one knows. The people vanished, overnight they say. It's a mystery." He seemed lost in thought for a second, a curious look crossing his face before he continued along the cobbled street.

Her mind began to fill with questions about the people who had once lived here - what had become of them? Who were they?

Emma felt the want of knowledge keenly. There was so much that she had yet to learn of the world. Her education as a princess had been one of books and poise and languages. Not one of much value away from the confines of the palace walls. Not one of value in the world she had now decided to live.

"And he we are,"announced the captain as they arrived at a row of low slung buildings aside a small, dried up fountain - a statue of a leaping fish at its center, poised in midair abreast a crashing wave covered in a layer of faded and chipped blue enamel. He pointed to the third doorway. It was low and the door was made of dark wood, covered in a thick layer of green, glossy moss. Above it, was a small sign, the lettering barely legible due to the passage of time, but the gold, looping shapes glinted just enough in the daylight for Emma to make out, '_A. Abernester, Master Jeweler'_.

Curious, she thought, as he advanced towards it and then gestured for her to wait by the door, "Stay here,"he ordered.

She slunk to the ground, slinging the sack in front of her, her back pressed against the wall. It was late morning, but the sun had yet to pierce the dense foliage that covered Arcadia. Everything was tinged in bluish-grey light. She shivered again, pulling her jacket tighter around her shoulders as she waited.

It was so quiet. No birds sang. There was no breeze.

Eyes sliding closed, she laid her head back against the wall. Tired, she began to fall into a gentle slumber…

* * *

"Mr. Abernaster, you must be able to tell me something of this necklace. Your reputation stretches for many leagues- I was assured-"

"Well, _Captain, _people can be wrong."

Inside, the shop was small and dark. The air was stale and damp and stung his nostrils as he adjusted to the atmosphere. He had found the owner dozing in a chair, a book open in his lap, his head rolled to one side.

The old man was rolling the pendant between finger and thumb. Against his eye was a monocle, slightly scuffed and attached to his vest by a tarnished gold chain. His lips were dry and cracked - every few words his slug-like tongue darted out to moisten them.

"I will reward handsomely any information that will lead me to the discovery of my brother's murderer."To prove his point, Killian reached into his pocket and pulled out a handful of gold doubloons, stretching them out to within the jeweler's grasp, before snatching them away and leaning over the table that separated them.

"Now please, look once more."

The old man's mouth twitched and his eyes narrowed at the sight of the prize on offer. He rolled his shoulders and brought the nugget of silver closer to his eye, quietly studying it as Killian waited impatiently, tapping his foot.

Squinting, the jeweler crinkled his brow, his paper thin skin wrinkling into innumerable lines on his sloping forehead. "Perhaps…"he began.

"Perhaps?"pressed Killian, resting his hook on the small table between them.

"Long ago, as a lad, I was apprenticed to a craftsman. He was one of the best - had worked for many powerful royal families in his time. He kept a log book as a record of all his designs - as reference, if you will. As his student, this book was key to our learning and I studied it many, many times. I believe that this pendant was the work of this man."

Killian sucked in a breath as his heart began to thud in his chest. A flush rose as he listened to the graveled voice of the old man telling his tale. "And what can you tell me of its owner?"

Abernaster clicked his tongue and twisted his mouth, "It was so long ago…"

Wordlessly Killian tossed a few gold coins onto the table. The jeweler's eyes flashed to the glinting metal, then he looked up at Killian.

"You test an old man, pirate. But, if I am correct, I believe it was made for an infant princess named Ava, her family had some connection to water or lakes- the Northern Kingdom I believe,"Abernaster waved his hand in the air and shook his head a little.

Narrowing his eyes, Killian wracked his mind for the name Ava….

"Wait - is this the same woman who became queen of the Enchanted Forest?"

Abernaster shrugged, "Perhaps - I am not one to keep up much with the politics of the outside world. I like my solitude. Why else would I live here?"he asked, his voice trailing off into a cackling laugh as he enjoyed his own wit.

"Indeed,"mumbled Killian. He wrapped the chain of the necklace around his finger and returned it to its pouch. "Well, if that is all the information you have-"

"Oh, Captain - can I not interest you in some trinket or jewel before you leave? A man such as yourself must have a lady or two tucked away in port who would be thankful of a pretty bauble."

Killian eyed the dark wooden cabinets that lined the wall - covered in a dusty layer, their glass uneven and crudely made - barely fit for the gems and precious metals that lay inside them.

"I have no time for women,"replied Killian, in a low voice.

"Aye, I believe you, thousands wouldn't!"Abernaster laughed. Killian found himself quickly becoming irritated with the old man and gave him a quick smile and nod, before dashing back out into the open air.

_**Reviews are appreciated more than you can know!**_


	5. Shore Leave - Part 2

**A/N - Wow, again thanks for the amazing feedback! This started as a very small Killian/Emma story but not it's got so much bigger in my head… Glad to have you all along for the ride!**

Emma stared into the pewter tankard around which her hands were wrapped. The tavern was abuzz with activity; the crew of the Jolly Roger already well lubricated with alcohol an hour or so after they had entered en masse, and taken over every available corner.

The room was small and the men were crowded around the limited tables that filled its space - save for a small bar at the far end of the room. Emma had been surprised that such a curious port should even have a drinking hole, but on reflection it seemed to be designed to service whatever ships may visit the island - its location a mere stumble from the dock and quite far from the town itself.

There were a few men drinking who were not of the crew - proof that there were at least some living on this isle. That day she had learned that Arcadia survived mostly now through the mining of rare minerals that were hidden deep in it's mountainous core. The eerie quiet of earlier was further explained by the daily exodus of what men and boys lived on the island to work in the mines.

Emma had hidden herself in the darkest corner, beside a few of the older sailors who were already snoring into their beers. She watched with a small smile as the two boys she had saved eagerly sipped their ale and talked with the younger crewmen - who were currently trying to persuade a shy barmaid to sit with them. She was glad for them - no, this was not what they had envisaged as a life at sea, but at least they were somewhat safe and had adjusted well to life onboard well.

Her beer was slightly warm and bitter, but still it went down easily: relaxing her tired, weary muscles and helping to release a little of the tension that had taken residence between her shoulders blades in the past week.

The day had been ultimately been uneventful. After being awoken by the captain's boot giving her a swift kick to the ribs, she had followed him from place to place, bartering the stolen goods she was carrying for food and other supplies which she then had to arrange to be transported to the ship.

It must have taken six or seven trips back and forth along the rough path to complete all the arrangements. More than once, the thought of attempting to escape had crossed her mind. The forest around the town was thick and extensive - she doubted that they would be able to find her. Her fervour was dampened by the astute realization that she knew nothing really of this island: its terrain, its predators or its secrets. It would have been highly likely that any escape into the island's depths may have ended in a perilous endeavour. Emma was brave, but not foolish.

She looked across the tavern until she saw the black, leather clad form of the captain joining tankards with his men, a wry smile on his face. Emma had still not worked him out - the 'dreaded' Captain Hook. She knew well enough to fear him based on reputation alone. Yet his behaviour to her was at least somewhat civil most of the time and this perplexed her. His cool demeanour and often cryptic words only adding to the mystique. Watching him smile, she noticed this did not extend to his eyes. They were still a brilliant blue, but somehow flat and dark, curious…

"Ay lad, how art thou fairin'?"

Broken from her introspection, Emma turned to her left to see Dicken, the ship's sailmaker, settling beside her on the low, uneven bench.

"Not so bad, sir," she smiled.

Dicken had been one of the few to give her a kind word or smile since she had reluctantly joined the crew. He was an older man, though she struggled to determine his age. The hair from the crown of his head was gone, leaving a reddened dome of peeling skin which seemed permanently sunburned and contrasted starkly with the salt-and-pepper color of what hair remained. His face, however, seemed younger - his bright green eyes lit up when he talked and although his skin was creased from hours in the sun, his expressions were playful and light.

"Tis not a bad port, this," he began before taking a sip from his tankard, "Tis almost luxury compared to some!"

"I suppose," she smiled at the old man, before looking back across the room, she watched Captain Jones laugh and take a long drink from his cup. "Dicken, how long have you been aboard the Jolly?"

"My," he sighed, rubbing the back of his hand against the rough, patchy stubble of his cheek, "Must b' comin' up t' ten year I'd say."

"And, if I may ask, how well do you know our captain? He seems strange… Not what I expected for a pirate captain."

Dicken paused and ran a thumb over the rim of his tankard, "He's had a 'ard life 'as our Cap'n Jones."

"Really?" Asked Emma, surprised that anyone whose living was piracy could be considered to have a hard life.

"Dost thou not know?" She shook her head and he chuckled in response, "Well, thou art new I s'pose. Much sadness 'as bin in 'is life - 'is loved ones dy'in, 'tis sad t' say."

"Dying?" asked Emma.

Dicken leaned closer, taking a look around before continuing. "T'was 'is brother first. He t'was t' first Cap'n Jones - a good sort 'e was - when 'e died our Killian took over. Mind, 'is heart was wild fer so long… Well, until he met his consort - a lass named Milah. Was with us a good two years. Then, o' course, she died too."

Death and sadness. What a sorry tale, she though as she nursed her beer. "Is he a good man?"

Instantly she felt stupid asking a pirate whether a pirate captain was a good man.

"Oh yes lad. Many a cap'n would uh shipped off one so old as m'self by now. And for all his 'ard talk, I knows there's a good man inside. I would not stay if it t'were otherwise."

Emma continued to stare across the room. The more she heard of Killian Jones, the more confused she was. She had always been a quick study of character - her favorite past time at court was to watch the courtiers who came to pay their respects to her father and stepmother (or, more accurately, she thought, fawn over them in hope of some monetary reward). While they stooped and bowed and babbled praises, she would examine their faces, poise and clothes - making up stories and tales of their backgrounds and lives, looking for small clues like a brooch or a muddied shoe to create a tale with which to amuse herself.

But with Killian Jones these schemes and musings came up with a blank page in her mined - and that curious part of her clamoured for more.

"Well, if you say so, it must be true." Once again she smiled at Dicken. He might be a pirate, but Emma had began to trust the old man. He seemed to have a good heart.

"'Tis," he nodded, "And thou should know our cap'n is a very clever man - educated. That's why the Jolly is so feared, 'e calls it tactics."

"Educated?" Emma asked, furrowing her brow, "An educated pirate?"

"A' knows," he chuckled, "It sounds strange, but 'tis true."

Emma wanted to ask more, but Dicken quickly finished the rest of his drink and stood to move away, "Keep safe t'night lad, this island is not one t' trifle with."

And as quickly as he had arrived, he was gone into the crowd.

* * *

Tiredness came over her like a quick rising tide. Her eyelids felt heavy and a dull pain throbbed her temple.

The crew had gotten even louder than she thought possible. The two barmaids were rushed off their feet delivering ale to the numerous men, and they had been joined by a few painted wenches wearing low cut gowns with their hair piled atop of their heads.

Across the room, she could see one of these women sat on the Captain's lap - toying with his hair and whispering in his ear. He seemed disinterested almost, more focused on the game of dice that he was playing with the man across the table from him.

"You play dice?" came a slurring voice from behind her. Turning to look, she saw one of the deckhands - a man named Porter - swaying slightly, the pint of beer in his hand sloshing over the edges of the tankard.

"No -"

"Come on, I'll show yeh -" Porter stomped his tankard onto the table beside her as he fumbled in his inside pocket.

"Thank you, but I'm actually tired and I'm-"

"Tired?" Porter laughed - a low, deep growl that rattled in his chest, "Why, thou art queer for a young lad!"

Blushing furiously, Emma swung her legs over the bench and ducked around Porter.

"Aye, that he is!" came a call form across the tavern. She caught eyes with the offender - a friend of Porter's, of course equally as drunk.

"I promise you both, I am merely tired after a hard day and I need to sleep."

She gave a terse smile and stumbled towards the door. The other man stood in her path, grinning mischievously as he grabbed the wrist of one of the wenches who was sat near him, his hands moving to fondle her breasts as she stood in front of him, a tense smile on her face.

"If thou art tired, perhaps some company to warm your bed?"

He was teasing her. The men on either side of him joined in his rough laughter and she licked her lips and straightened her shoulders, trying to hide her nervousness.

"Oh!" cried Porter, "Per'aps the lad is a virgin! That's why 'e is so shy! Is that is Jack? Tis you unfamiliar with the female person?"

More laughter rose. The fire in her cheeks was burning and she could feel rolls of sweat rolling between her shoulder blades.

"Or maybe," interjected the other man, "It's not the ladies he 'as a likin' for." He cupped a hand around his mouth, the other continuing to squeeze the wench's bosom, "Ey, barkeep, dost thou have a kitchen boy to entertain our lad t'night?"

By now, most eyes in the room were on Emma. God she felt ridiculous, but she wanted to cry. Sometimes the softer, feminine side betrayed her and she hated it.

The chuckling voices echoed around the room and Emma froze.

"Now, now lads."

A voice rose above the din - it was the captain. He was standing, one foot planted on the bench on which he had sat, his hand gesturing to the table. The woman who had been on his knee was now pushed to one side.

"Your captain is trying to play a quiet game. Leave the boy alone - have you not got better things to do with your shore leave?"

Porter dipped his head, "Sorry Cap'n, twas all in good jest - meant no harm an all."

Killian waved his hand dismissively as he sat and the room returned to it's previous actives - Emma taking the chance to slip out into the night. Silently, she thanked the captain, stealing another glance at him as the door closed behind her.

* * *

The cool air stung the burn from her cheeks. She quickly felt a little drunk - there was something about fresh air and alcohol that seemed to have a magical affect of changing one's temperament in an instant.

She lay back against the wall of the tavern - the noise from inside barely permeating the thick brick and plaster construction. That was close - too close. If she had been found out in such a manner… Though she supposed she could have bribed the prostitute. Sighing, she was thankful it hadn't came to that.

With her palms, she pressed away from the wall. She pulled her hat tighter as the chill wind whipped up around her - brought forth over the nearby dock and scented like salt and sea. Her eyes wandered over to a small wooden board a few feet from the door; it was covered in posters - plastered one over the other, most yellowing and frayed with age. Training her eyes over them she read quickly - mostly wanted posters for criminals and pirates (how ironic, she mused) - then she noticed one that was newer. It was still almost white, the printed lettering still clear and crisp.

Stepping forward, the words came into focus. 'Missing'. 'Reward'. 'Princess'. _'Emma'. _

Her jaw dropped and her heart began to race. The picture at its bottom was a simple sketch that looked like it had been taken from her official portrait in the throne room. It was only her face, her long hair tied back… The likeness was good. She recognized her own mouth, her own lips-

Furtively looking around, she quickly began to claw at the offending poster. It came away in thick strips beneath her fingernails, peeling towards the ground like dry autumn leaves. Gathering up the pieces, she shoved them in her pocket, before turning around to leave.

"Dicken!" she cried in shock. The old man was standing in the doorway, puffing slowly on a small pipe which sent a plume of smoke rising towards the sky.

"Jack," he nodded, "Didn't mean t' startle yeh."

Emma pulled her hands from her pocket and began to wring them together behind her back. "How long-?"

"Long enough," he smiled stepping closer.

A wave of sickness grew, rising up her throat as a cool feeling of dread flooded over her skin.

"Oh, sir, I can-"

"Hush-" the old man whispered, walking to her and taking her arm to guide her further away from the door, "I is no 'sir' to thee."

She swallowed deeply as Dicken looked back to make sure they were alone. "I is many things, but not a fool. I took thee for a girl from the first time I clapped eyes on yeh. A princess tho, well that's a s'prise."

"You knew?" she whispered.

"It's in the eyes, love."

There was a pause as Emma processed the pirate's confession.

"Why didn't you tell - I mean, why keep that a secret."

"Look lass, as far as I see it, if a girl were t' cut her locks and dress like a lad - well, there must be a good enough reason for that."

Emma nodded, "I was trapped."

Dicken placed a soft hand on her shoulder, "Worry not lass - I will keep thy secret. But thou must be careful - that was close in there! Keep t' thyself, stay away from that Porter and 'is like."

Giving him a little smile, Emma tilted her head and pressed a soft kiss on the old man's hand - his eyes opened wide in surprise.

"You're a good man Dicken."

"You're the first to say that in a very long time."

"Well, it's true," she insisted, placing her hand over his and thanking her lucky stars that all stories about pirates were not true.

* * *

She was cold and tired and annoyed.

The banging on her door had woken her from a quite pleasant dream of riding through the forest back home on her horse, Honey.

Pulling on her overshirt she had seen a rather inebriated Mr. Smee drunkenly rambling about the captain. Peeking her head from the door, she had seen him sunk to the floor, his shirt undone, softly snoring.

After grabbing her hat, Smee had helped her pull the captain into his cabin before drunkenly stumbling to his own quarters.

Asleep, Captain Jones was a dead weight. It took all her might to wrestle his long black boots from his legs (she was still smarting a little over their muddied state). Next, she lit the small lamp next to his bed.

Reaching for his belt, she gave herself a chance to pause. This was a chance to study the captain who so intrigued her without discovery. Though his eyes - and their piercing blue - were hidden, she couldn't ignore the way the sharp angle of his jaw and high cheekbones laid the foundations for a fine, handsome face. One even the scar on his cheek and layer of stubble couldn't hide; perhaps, in fact, they actually enhanced it.

Her eyes dipped lower to his half exposed chest. His vest was undone and lay limply at this sides and all but a few of the buttons of his black cotton shirt were unfastened. The shirt was tucked into his leather trousers and held in place with heavy-buckled belt.

Her fingers hesitated over the belt fastening. His chest was almost hypnotizing; leanly muscled and layered in hair that thickened as it trailed lower. There was a familiar stirring in her stomach. Her mind flashed back to the men she had given herself to. None were as he - so masculine. That was the only way she could describe him. He had the kind of form that she craved to feel beneath her fingers and taste.

Shaking hands released the buckle. He stirred a little as she pulled on the length of leather, releasing it and gently placing on on the chair beside his desk.

It couldn't be denied, she realized, that he was handsome and that she was attracted to him. His fine form and the mystique surrounding him appealed to her sense of danger and adventure. But she measured her thoughts with the understanding that he was a pirate, thought she was a boy - and most likely would slit her throat if he found out otherwise.

As she was lost in thought, Killian began to mumble. A pricking of sweat appeared on his brow.

At first it was incoherent. Emma had reached for the lamp to turn it down and was about to leave when a hand clutched hers.

"Milah!" he cried, his head tossing from side to side, "Milah! No! No…"

The words descended into quiet sobs. His fingers frightened around hers and she felt the delicate bones in her hand being slowly crushed by his firm grip.

"I'm sorry," he whispered, "I'm sorry - I'm sorry…"

A ripple of pity spread out from her heart. The pain in his voice and the way his face was contorted as he spoke pierced the shell of mistrust for that she had grown for this man.

She tried to pull her hand away, but he held tight. His face dampening as gentle tears rolled down his cheeks. Then suddenly his hand loosened and she turned to leave. Desperate to escape the misery - when his eyes flashed open and latched onto hers.

The air seemed to leave the room. Everything went still.

His blue eyes bore into hers - still glazed from his tears and reddened around the edges. She couldn't look away. The more she stared, the more she saw - hurt and pain and longing. She couldn't explain it, she just knew that was what lay inside - and that scared her.

"Captain," she finally said, "I was just-"

His eyes slipped closed again and he nodded, "Thank you boy. You can leave."

Emma nodded, which was ridiculous as his eyes were shut and then turned to the door.

"Jack?"

His voice was a little slurred. She looked back over her shoulder. He was sitting on the bed, pulling off his shirt.

"None of this to the men."

Emma nodded again. Trying to ignore the flash of heat that flooded her as she watched the muscles of his shoulders flex as they moved.

* * *

Safe back in her cabin, she bolted the door and fell into her hammock with a soft groan.

This ship was getting more dangerous by the day.

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	6. The Luck of the Draw - Part 1

_A/N - Dicken and the other pirates are speaking in something similar to a Yorkshire accent._

_Princess of the Enchanted Forest_ was a rather apt title for Emma: nowhere else was she happier than among the trees and plants which gave her realm its name.

Astride Honey, she galloped through the dense woodland; hair flowing down her back, her cheeks flush from the exercise. The summer air was warm and sweet with the scent of wildflowers and pine trees. As she rode, the musky odor of plants in bloom ignited her senses and small creatures scurried across the forest floor. It was another world here, hidden within the arms of these tall wooden giants. Here, she was free from the restraints of court life: from her stepmother's wavering gaze and the growing pressure to marry and produce the next heir.

Honey had been the last gift her mother had given her before she disappeared. Sometimes she wondered if her mother had known - that maybe Honey had been a message, something to console her when she was gone…But that was preposterous, of course. Queen Snow had fallen into the ocean while sailing in rough seas. It was an accident.

Sometimes she felt like Honey was her only friend in the world: she would listen without judgement as Emma shared her deepest thoughts and fears, nuzzling into her neck - providing strength and love when she needed it the most. People could never seem to forget the fact she was a princess - could never see her as a person. Even those she considered friends, still seemed to hold back from true intimacy with a sense of misplaced decorum.

That day was much the same as any other. A quick breakfast in her parlor before she had dashed to the stables: a bag packed with a blanket and her copy of Gulliver's Travels. After riding for almost an hour, she had reached a grassy glade, where the sunlight filtered through the trees onto the lush green grass, scattered with bluebells.

There she had laid, book in hand, soaking up the simple pleasure of silence and sunshine on her skin, drinking in the warmth and comfort it provided, allowing it to wash away her worries as Honey grazed nearby. Remaining there until the sun began to dip behind the canopy of trees and her skin began to rise into gooseflesh with the chilling of the air.

After reaching the high wall that surrounded the palace, she quickly dismounted and circled Honey's reins around her hand, burying her face into the horse's soft mane - the color of which had inspired her name. She whispered loving words into her mount's ear as the gates opened and she walked into the small courtyard that backed onto the stables.

As she made her way to the stable arch, a servant from the castle dashed across the cobbled yard: "My lady - the king and queen are looking for you."

A sudden feeling of dread washed over her - cold and settling in her stomach. Today was the day when they were to receive visitors - King Michael and his son, Neal, from the neighboring kingdom of Antala. Emma knew what this meant. Another suitor. More stilted conversation. Her stepmother once again pushing her to encourage the affections of a man she felt nothing for.

Nodding, she handed the reins to the servant and headed into the castle with a sigh.

Being royalty was a gilded cage. Pretty things and comfortable living came with the shackles of responsibility. And that weighed heavy on her heart as she walked silently to the throne room.

* * *

"Emma!"

Her stepmother stood and opened her arms to embrace Emma - pausing for a second to give her a look to say she disapproved of her disheveled hair and grass-stained gown. Stiffly she embraced the other woman. The heavy brocade of her dress felt cold under her fingers and she pressed a tight lipped kiss to Emma's cheek, before whispering in her ear, "Don't forget what we spoke of."

How could she forget? Cautiously, she nodded, their conversation of a few days ago fresh in her mind~

_"Emma. You are not getting any younger. You must marry soon-"_

_Her head in her hands, she pressed her fingers into her temple, trying to ease the growing ache. _

_"As you seem to want to remind me every other day!"_

_Queen Anya walked over to where Emma sat, crouching until they were face to face and taking her hands in hers. "I know how this feels. You forget I too was a princess before I was queen-"_

_"Technically, my mother is still queen." Emma looked at her stepmother and instantly felt guilty at the flash of pain that shot over her face._

_"Your mother is gone. No one has seen her for ten years, Emma. You must let go of this belief that she will come back - your father did."_

_Emma nodded her understanding. The moment she had watched her father join hands with Anya that summer's day three years ago had been the moment when she realized her father believed her mother was gone forever. While she still held onto a tiny grain of hope. However irrational._

_"He married you because of political pressure, _Mother,_ you and I both know that."_

_Standing, Anya strolled to the window that overlooked the castle gardens, "It is true that the union of our families has made both kingdoms stronger. We must all do our duty - and this marriage was mine. Life deals us all a hand of cards, Emma, the way they fall is the luck of the draw."_

_She watched as the other woman played with the thin band of gold on her ring finger. In truth, Anya was closer in age to a sister to her than a mother. The daughter of a powerful king to the south, the marriage had cemented an alliance between the kingdoms and brought much trade and protection to the Enchanted Forest. But for all her words of duty, Emma saw the shadow of sadness that hung over her._

_It was often talked about that the king and queen lead separate lives. Her father spent much of his time dealing with matters of business or hidden away in the library. The queen spent most of her days wandering the halls of the large castle - directing servants and trying to exude an air of authority._

_Emma knew people in court talked. Why had they had no heir yet? Was the queen barren? And she heard the whispers of the servants. The king always sleeps alone - never stirs to go to his wife's bed chamber. With every passing year the flatness of her belly and the emptiness of her arms said enough for Emma to see the truth in the gossip below stairs._

_"So that's it - I must marry some prince and sacrifice all my own happiness for duty? What about love? What about choice?"_

_"As women - as royalty - this is our cross to bear. The sooner you accept this truth, the sooner you can make peace with it. Duty, Emma - it was what we were born for." _

_And as much as Emma hated to agree, she knew in her heart her stepmother was right._

She sat beside her father as the doors to the room opened. First entered two footman followed by two other men - finely dressed and clearly royal.

The throne room was the most ostentatious of the whole castle. Every available surface was carved and gilded, thick ruby red drapes hung from the walls, a large carpet - intricately embroidered - covered the space in front of the three ornate thrones that were raised on a small platform at one end.

They approached, both bowing slowly, before her father stood and embraced the older man's hand. "King Michael, we are so honored by your visit."

The other king smiled, his eyes crinkling a little, until he gestured to the man beside him. "We are most honored by the invitation, your majesty. May I present my son, Neal?"

The younger man bowed and Emma looked at him intently. He was handsome, that much was true. Soft, dark eyes and thick brown hair. He was dressed well, the green of his doublet bringing out flecks of gold in his eyes. He turned his head and caught her gazing at him - giving her small smile and a nod. She replied in kind.

"It is good to finally meet you," her father said to Neal. "May I introduce my wife Anya, and my daughter, Princess Emma."

Both women rose in time and stepped closer to their guests holding out their hands and receiving a kiss from both men. The parents began to chat idly of matters of business as Emma and Neal stood somewhat awkwardly together.

She looked over at her father - he kept stealing glances at the pair, as the three discretely moved aside to give them privacy.

This was what her father wanted: her duty.

A heavy feeling in her heart, she turned to Neal and gave him a bright smile, "So," she began, "Tell me of your kingdom."

* * *

Thick fog surrounded the ship. Although it was past midday, the fallen clouds blocked out most of the sunlight and made the air cold and damp.

Most of the crew was below deck - playing cards and drinking weak ale as they waited for the weather to lift so they could resume their journey - navigation almost impossible in the heavy shroud that covered the Jolly.

Emma had taken the chance to have a rare moment of peace. Sitting on a bundle of rope at the aft of the ship, she slowly ate a small piece of bread. The quiet was blissful. It was the first real moment of solitude in the open air she had experienced since they had left Arcadia almost a week ago.

"Penny for thy thoughts?"

She smiled as she heard Dicken's voice. She had barely had the chance to talk to him, since he had discovered her real identity. At first she had feared - for all his promises - he would betray her. But he hadn't and her heart was warmed by his friendship.

"Enjoying the quiet,"she replied as he sat beside her.

The two watched the slow moving fog for a few minutes. Emma broke off piece of bread and handed it to Dicken.

"Can I ask thee a question, lass?"he whispered, crumbling the bread between his fingers as the boat softly swayed.

"Of course, that's the least I can do for you."

The old man smiled.

"Why art thou here? What cause made thee leave thy home - for this?"He gestured to the empty deck.

Emma thought quietly for a moment. It has all happened too quickly. The decision, her escape…

"Freedom, Dicken,"she replied, "It was the only way I could be free."

* * *

Several dinners, a ball, a day spent together riding in the woods and Emma had to admit: he was growing on her.

He lacked the stiffness and formality of the other princes she had been encouraged to meet. He laughed at her dry wit and shared her love of horseriding and travel.

Perhaps she could do this. She knew how happy it would make her father. Not only to unite the kingdoms, but to see her settled. She keenly felt the burden she lay on his shoulders the older she became. He worried for her future. She knew that.

So she had decided that she would accept the inevitable proposal. It was not likely a better one would come her way. Neal seemed reasonable and would likely make a good husband. Perhaps she may even grow to love him. One day.

Approaching the library where she expected to find her father, she raised her hand to knock on the large, heavy door- only to pause when she heard voices inside.

"I'm not sure, Father, she is a beauty, I agree, but fit to be my consort, I am unsure…"

"Now, now, son,"came the voice of King Michael, "She is rather exuberant, that I understand, but she is of good, royal blood. She will provide a strong heir for our kingdom."

"Perhaps…But Father, I don't think I am ready to swear myself to one woman. And such a willful one. I worry she will not accept my authority."

"Come now Neal, once you are married, she will answer to you as her husband - she will have no choice. No more of this gallivanting around the forest alone or these fanciful ideas of distant realms. A woman's place is in the home, bearing heirs. You and I both know these arrangements are political. Marry her and give me an heir, whatever else you chose to do with your time matters not to me."

"And Tamara- what will become of her?"

"You may keep your little dalliance as a mistress if you like. Here's my proposal - marry the princess and I will even bestow upon the wench a cottage where you may keep her away from prying eyes."

"And what if the princess learns of this? I doubt she would agree-"

"Once you are married, it is of no consequence what she thinks or desires. You will be King, Neal - and a king needs a queen, not some bar wench you are infatuated with."

Crisp footsteps made her pull away from the door and gasp - her ears still ringing with everything she had just heard. In the distance, she could see her father advancing along the stone hallway, a smile growing on his lips as he approached.

"Emma - to what do I owe this pleasure?"

"Um,"she replied, lashes fluttering as the conversion she had just heard reverberated around her mind.

_A woman's place is in the home._

_Provide an heir._

_Answer to you as her husband-_

They saw her as nothing more that chattel - a trinket to display and use as they saw fit. Her blood boiled in anger.

Was this all she should ever be seen as? An object? A chess piece in a game of kings and thrones?

"Nothing, I just wanted to see you, Father."

King David smiled, and pulled his daughter into an embrace, dropping a kiss on her forehead.

"And I can think of no better reason. Come, let us go for a walk."

He hugged her close, before dropping his hand to her waist as they walked together towards the staircase to the garden.

As her father talked of treaties and palace intrigues, Emma lost herself in her own thoughts.

A plan was forming in her mind. With a heavy heart she was beginning to realize that perhaps her only chance of happiness was away from this life. Her only chance of freedom was to escape her gilded cage - to no longer be a princess.

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	7. The Luck of the Draw - Part 2

_Mr. Anders School for Boys, 25 years earlier_

"Come in."

Nervously, Killian opened the large, oak door - turning the rounded brass handle with some difficultly before pulling it gently closed. In front of him was a large, imposing desk - polished so it instantly dazzled him.

Killian had never been in the headmaster's room before. Despite having spent the past two years under his tutelage, the tall and gangly eight year old had never had reason to visit this, the third floor of the house, where his private quarters lay.

Eyes wide, he took in his surroundings. Heavily patterned green wallpaper covered every wall and on the floor was an equally busy Turkish carpet. Shelves lined two walls - packed with faded books and various, curious looking knick knacks - so tall they seemed to reach into the very ceiling itself. Behind the desk was a large window split into small rectangular panes which cast a pretty shadow across the floor. In front of the window sat the dour figure of Mr. Anders - the principal of the establishment.

Killian Jones had always been a little afraid of Mr. Anders. He wasn't a tall man by any means, but for some reason he appeared as a giant to the younger boys who boarded together in the house. His hair was light, almost colorless, thoroughly overwhelmed by his permanently red skin: wind raw in the winter and sunburned in the summer. His face was strangely hypnotic: a long nose that dipped to hang over large pink lips, beady eyes that were almost black and devoid of any emotion. His cheeks were plump - matching his large rounded belly. Overall, his appearance was one of a rotund, overstuffed cushion.

"Boy, come closer. I have some news for you."Killian obeyed, shuffling nearer, dipping his head respectfully. "Your mama-"

"Mama? Is she here?"he asked, eyes brightening.

"No-"

Across the room, another voice interjected, "No, Killian. Your mama - well, she is gone."

Killian whipped around his head and gasped in surprise. In the far corner stood a man he had never seen before, hidden slightly in the shadow that clung to the edges of the room. Tall and lean, the man had light curling hair and was dressed fashionably in a blue jacket that nipped in at the waist and a deep red cravat.

Confused, he turned back to Mr. Anders. "Gone?"he echoed, his brow crinkling.

The headmaster cleared his throat and grasped his sausage like fingers together on the desk, "Killian, she has died. It was the typhoid."

"Died…?"Killian mumbled, his bright blue eyes welling with tears as he crumpled the cap between his fingers.

Typhoid.

He thought back to Sam, a boy who had come to board with them for some time in the year just passed. His father and brother had died of 'nervous fever'as they sometimes called it, along with half the people in their part of his town. Over a hundred people killed in just over a week, Sam had said. Killian knew enough to be very scared of such a disease.

He knew he ought to be sad. His eyes dripped a few tears onto his shirt and his head ached a little, but other than that it was difficult to mourn someone whom had never been much of a part of his life. A few fleeting meetings, a toy from time to time, a note on his birthday. That was all he had known of his mother. Yet he knew he would miss her all the same.

"Are you okay?

"Who are you?"he asked, turning to the back of the man who had spoken earlier.

He walked towards Killian, a simple smile on his lips, until he crouched so that they were face to face. "My name is Liam. I am your half-brother."

Killian's small eyes widened. "Brother?"

Liam nodded softly as he looked over his brother's face. "Yes - we share the same father."

"Are you come to take me?" Hope began to swell in his small heart. A brother. _Family_. This was all he had ever dreamed of-

"No,"Liam whispered, grasping his hand and running his thumb over the back of it as he gave Killian a tight lipped smile, "Not yet, at least. Stay here and learn, I will visit as often as I can."

"But family should be together."

Yes, he still believed this. Despite having never met his father and knowing little of his own mother, he knew in his heart that family belong with one another.

"Yes dear brother, tis true, but not always possible. I have only just learned of your existence and presently I cannot care for you. Your mother's estate is well able to pay for your education until such time as I can take charge of you."

Killian's young mind was all astir with so much new information - mother dead, a brother, who _wants him_…

"Do you promise? Promise you will come get me when you can?"

His voice came out in a squeak of desperation, his eyes wide, searching the face of the stranger with the oddly familiar mouth and lips.

"Yes brother, I promise."

* * *

Weary eyes. Weary feet. So much tiredness…

It had taken a grand effort to push herself to stand from where she had sat watching the stars with Dicken that evening - the fog of the past few days finally clearing and offering a tantalizing glimpse of the heavens above.

She had stared at the constellations as they hovered above, briefly obscured from time to time by wispy breaths of cloud, until the wheezing snorts of her sleeping companion had alerted her to the lateness of the hour and the ache in her back had beckoned her towards her own bunk.

An eerie quiet had settled over the lower decks; punctuated by the occasional peal of snoring cutting throughout the silence as the crew slept. Only a skeleton crew was needed to remain at watch this far at sea. Consequently Emma was able to relax - just a little - as she tiptoed along the creaking wooden boards.

Then she reached the cabin she had to pass to reach her own: the captain's. She swallowed, and held her breath as she approached. Since that night over a week ago, she had done her best to avoid his notice. The memory of how her cheeks had flushed and the flicker of desire that rose in her body when they were at close quarters was dangerously fresh in her mind, and not a feeling she was keen to solicit once more.

"Boy?"

The voice rang clear in the air, even through the thick, cabin door. She paused, holding her breath for a second, until-

"Boy!"

'Hell," she whispered under her breath, rolling back her head as she knocked gently on the door before dipping into the cabin.

"Yes sir?" she asked, her eyes quickly adjusting to the brighter atmosphere of the cabin, lit as it was by four lanterns and at least as many candles.

The sight of the captain, hair in disarray, shirt open to his waist and lain over his desk, gave her a start and she had to check herself to avoid crying out in shock.

Hesitating in the doorway, she watched as he slowly raised his head and gave her a lazy smile. "Jack. I need more rum." Slurred words were punctuated by the sound of an empty bottle of rum falling to the floor with a dull thud.

"Captain-" she began, taking a step forward.

"Rum!" he repeated, banging his hook against the table to emphasize his point.

Nodding, Emma dashed to the hold, feeling her way along the dark space until she found the captain's supply of rum, pausing only to draw a pitcher of weak ale before she hurried back into the cabin.

When she returned, Captain Jones was now sitting upright, his hair smoothed a little and his hook dislodged from its brace and lying on the desk in front of him. Between his fingers, he rolled two small, white dice back and forth, his eyes locked on the tiny white cubes of ivory that glistened a little in the dim light.

He didn't acknowledge when she approached and placed the bottle in front of him, nor when she took a tankard from the shelf near the door and filled it with the weak ale that was the ship's substitute for fresh water.

She waited for him to say something else, but he seemed transfixed by the dice.

"Goodnight sir," she finally whispered.

Her words shook him from his daze and the dice fell from his fingers, clattering against the desk, his hand following and wrapping around the bottle - lifting it to his mouth so he could pull the cork out with his teeth.

"Drink?"

"Sir, I…" she swallowed as her voice trailed off, straining to think of a reason that would allow her to escape.

Ignoring her hesitation, he kicked a stool out from under the desk and nodded towards it. "Sit," he ordered as he lined up two small pewter glasses and filled them with rum - spilling a generous amount on the desk. She watched the liquid saturated the wood, darkening it, as she cautiously sat and took the drink she was handed.

"To victory," Captain Jones purred, his lips curling into a half smile-half snarl as he swayed slightly in his seat.He pressed his glass against hers, locking onto her gaze as he poured back the liquid in one go. Quickly she copied him, her brow crinkling when the alcohol hit the back of her throat and scorched the sensitive flesh. She held back an urge to cough, though her eyes began to water.

"Another."

It wasn't a request. The glasses were quickly filled again, and then once more, until the rum began to burn in her belly and she felt the woozy high as the beginnings of drunkenness filled her bones.

He went to pour another, but she placed her fingers over the glass and he paused, raising a brow.

"Sir, to what victory do we toast?"

Smiling, he pushed away her fingers and refilled the rum. He didn't bother with his own glass this time, instead bringing the bottle to his lips and taking a long, slow draw. Lying back, he rested the bottle on his leather clad leg, swinging one over the other until they were crossed at the ankle. While he seemed lost in thought, his tongue flicked out and licked the sticky, sweet remnants from his lips. She tried to not look at the moist flash of pink and the leisurely way it traveled across his mouth. Tried not to imagine what he himself would taste of: _rum_? Something else… A small shiver snaked down her spine as her heart started to thud dangerously.

"A long awaited one," he answered enigmatically, placing the bottle back down on the table and picking up the dice again. "You play?" he asked, as he tossed down the dice.

"Once or twice, sir. I'm not much of a gambler."

He laughed a little, picking up the dice and throwing them a few more times, each time landing on a double. His mood seemed to switch between drunken swaying and slurred words smattered with moments of lucidity. Emma's mind ticked over as she tried to judge the captain's state of mind.

"Neither am I," he replied, shifting around in his chair and pushing out his leg so his foot almost reached hers.

Snatching the dice from the table, she threw them herself. _Double six. _She tried again. _Double two. _And again. _Double six. _

Narrowing her eyes, she slowly sipped her rum - trying to work out what was happening, finally looking up to see an amused expression on his face.

"You're cheating."

"A mere technicality, boy."

Emma used her finger to flick the dice across the table again. Both landed on the number two. "This is meant to be a game of chance," she sassed boldly, the alcohol stripping away some of her earlier reserve.

"I don't believe in chance. Better that the odds spin in your favor wherever they can. God knows they have their own way with you often enough."

As he spoke she watched his eyes flicker to a small shelf above the desk. On it laid a miniature in a wooden case. It was of a young man with familiar bright blue eyes. The colors were little faded, but she could see he was well dressed, with a fine suit and shining buckles and buttons. He looked hopeful and full of life.

She looked at the captain again: pain now shrouded his face, like a dark veil that pulled down his features as he took yet another sip.

Gingerly, she took the bottle, pressing the tankard of weak ale across the table.

"Is that, sir, if you don't mind me asking-"

"My brother. I suppose the men have told you all my secrets," he smiled wryly, hand wrapping around the handle of the tankard.

"A little," she admitted.

Damn, the room was starting to spin now. The cabin felt like it was shifting in her mind, jarring her senses while a hot flush flashed over her cheeks.

"He was a good captain."

Nodding, Emma felt the drowsy pull of alcohol begin to swarm over her. But she was curious, so curious…

"May I be so bold as to ask how he came to be a pirate? And you? You seem…"

He raised his eyebrows in amusement, drawing back a mouthful of ale, before picking the miniature from its dusty home and laying it out in front of him.

"By chance. Some may say fate… I'm not sure I believe in that though. A man should be master of his own."

"Indeed," she whispered. _Indeed._

* * *

"Men, this is my half-brother, Killian. See to it you make him welcome aboard - he is to be taught the running of a ship as any other though, no special treatment."

"Aye sir," came the small chorus of replies from the handful of crew collected on deck. The men all nodded before returning to their previous employment.

Killian smiled at his brother - dressed in his smart lieutenant's uniform and respected by his crew. He was so proud.

"Brother - have I thanked you for keeping your promise and coming to get me?"

"Aye," Liam laughed, patting his younger brother on the back, "Perhaps ten times already?" Killian grinned as Liam's hands moved to his shoulders, "I only wish it could have been sooner."

"I understand - a young lad on this ship would have been a burden to you. But now I am almost 16 I am young enough to become a sailor!"

"That is true Killian, I was not much older than you when I first went to sea. Before you know it, you will have your own boat."

Killian's mind filled with images of exotic seas and islands, of treasure and adventure - all by the side of his brother. _His brother…_

"I'd like that Liam. Do you think my mother would be proud?"

"Immensely," Liam nodded, a sad look falling over his face. "As am I."

"And our father?" Killian asked cautiously, stepping a little closer and lowering his voice.

"Killian…" Liam began, sighing heavily as he pulled away to look out across the dock, "I have told you our father was a man of no good. A scoundrel, even. His opinion of you should have no bearing on your sense of self. I am your brother and you are mine. We are each all the other has in the world by way of true family. Let us forget those who had left nothing but a heavy stain on our hearts."

Killian turned to look out over the bright blue sea as the sun began to set, casting shimmering flickers of light across its dazzling surface and the sky began to be tinted in a golden hue. Liam was right, they were all each other needed. Would ever need…

"You're right, brother. Come, let me see more of your ship."

* * *

Too much rum and not enough sleep. She could feel her eyelids flickering closed. The captain didn't seem done with her yet - refiling her glass again and asking mundane questions about her life that she fumbled to fabricate. She was unsure whether he was interested or, perhaps - just maybe, he was seeking company.

As he asked her about siblings and parents, she realized apart from the evening in the tavern the week earlier, the captain spent little time with his crew. He took his meals alone and retired to his cabin quite early every evening. It must be a lonely existence, she mused. He was so different from his men…

"So no siblings, a lowly trader for a father, an absent mother… How, pray tell, did one such as you become so educated?"

Emma's mouth became dry and her lips parted slightly. Her mind raced as she sought an answer that wasn't '_well actually I am a princess and I have three governesses…'_

"Our-our village had a priest. A very, um, wise man. He taught us children well - he understood the importance of learning."

"And speaking well, I see? You must know how you stand out from the other crew?"

The thudding in her heart grew heavy: he leaned a little closer and his eyes flickered lower across her body. _Had he noticed something? _

"A well-spoken deckhand is a rare thing indeed. I see something more to your story boy, and I am determined to know it."

Emma laughed nervously, shaking her head a little and taking another drink as soon as it was poured. _He was getting too close to her secret. She had to escape. Soon._

"One more, Jack?" he slurred, his cheeks bright pink from the rum.

"One more," she agreed. Perhaps the rum would help her sleep, for the worry which was now consuming her threatened to keep her awake for hours.

* * *

A dry mouth and an aching back. A fine punishment for a night of excessive drinking. Her hand reached to her neck and massaged the small bones that spanned from the base of her skull as the morning light filtered through her eyelids with a pinkish shade.

How much rum? Urgh. Too much.

Gradually her eyes flickered open. She was on the floor. Above her a high, wooden ceiling, vaulted with solid oak beams. This was not her cabin, she realized with a start. Next, she heard the rhythmic breathing of another. Her head quickly turned to where Captain Jones was asleep sprawled over his desk. Stifling a cry, she started to scramble to her feet. The rum, she must have fallen asleep…

"Hmmm," came a throaty groan. She froze, paralyzed almost as the captain roused himself and sat up in his chair, his hand rubbing against his forehead and his face crumpled. "Rum, rum, rum…" he sighed.

She held her breath, willing her body to move-

"Boy?" came the captain's questioning voice.

She stumbled for the words, "I-I-"

Looking up at him, she realized he was staring at her. More directly, at her chest.

Following his gaze, she noticed the buttons of her shirt were half undone, the bandage holding her chest bound had slipped and unraveled a little, revealing a tantalizing and unmistakable hint of cleavage.

"Are you…"

His eyes narrowed. Perhaps he thought he was still drunk, perhaps-

She clutched at the edges of her shirt, pulling them together and beginning to push herself back along the coarse, wooden floor.

"Are you a girl?"

Her stomach dropped. She felt sick. Panic descended in dark mist that blanked out all thoughts except - _escape, run, NOW!_

Eyes wide, she caught his gaze for a second - he looked confused, shocked and dumbfounded.

Quickly, she took her chance and stumbled to her feet, taking the ladder straight to the deck, swinging open the heavy and climbing out of the cabin. Briefly she was blinded by the early morning sun.

"Come back!" bellowed the captain. She daren't have even turned to see if he was following. Instead she ran jumping over ropes and steps, racing until she could go no further. Panting, she placed her hands on the gunwale - finally looking over her shoulder to see Captain Jones advancing towards her.

Taking a deep breath she said a quick prayer before tossing herself into the empty, endless ocean. The cold hit her like a wall - catching her breath and sapping what little strength she had, as she willed her limbs to push and kick.

Gasping for air, she could feel herself slipping as the cold hand of the ocean consumed her in its murky grasp. Her legs and arms seemed powerless against its will and as she slipped below the surface, everything turned black.

**_As ever, reviews and feedback are immensely appreciated. It really is the only way I know what people think!_**


	8. Her

**I'm flabbergasted by the feedback I've been getting - especially for the last chapter of this fic. Thank you so much to all of you who took the time to let me know what you think, you'll never know just how much it is appreciated.**

Everything was black.

But it was also cold - so cold…

There was something pressing against her - seemingly from every direction. It was solid and heavy; try as she may, she couldn't take a single breath.

And she was falling - fast or slow, she wasn't sure, but as the seconds ticked by she was tumbling further towards-

Towards where?

A fog had crept into her consciousness. Where was she? What was happening?

Those thoughts wouldn't come.

All she could think was, why was it so cold?

* * *

His head was pounding as he raced up the ladder that led straight to the deck, hot on the heels of-

_Of - who? _

As much as the alcohol had made his thoughts muddled and vision fogged when he woke, he was certain of what he had seen.

Jack, he had… was sure of it. Concealed somewhat, yes, but beneath the half open shirt he had seen the unmistakable hint of fleshy curves as the boy had roused himself from where he lay on the floor of the cabin.

_Boy._

Or girl…?

The only answer would be found in following.

Reaching the top of the stairs, he paused for a second - breathing heavily - as he surveyed the deck. There was a flash of white near the bow. _There. _

Narrowing his eyes, he ran quickly.

Jack was looking back at him, face etched in panic. Then his hands were on the gunwale; his feet scrambling to join them.

And in a flash, he was gone.

"Bloody hell,"muttered Killian as he reached the spot where Jack had jumped overboard.

Frowning, he searched the seething blue-grey mass of water below. The ocean was accented by frothy pools of white sea foam which swirled and bobbed in the unsettled expanse, disguising any entry point he would have made.

He craned his neck, leaning over and looking down.

Nothing, nothing, until-

A pale pink flash of skin, an arm?

"Jack!"he shouted. But just as quickly as it appeared the arm sank beneath the surface.

Killian hissed as he went to grab a length of rope that was coiled near the mast. He quickly looked around: no crew was yet on deck, save the young lad in the crow's nest who appeared fast asleep.

Tugging the rope, he coiled it around his waist and tied it with a firm knot.

_This was a foolish, crazy idea-_

These thoughts were quickly swallowed as he dived into the ocean, aiming for the place where the arm had vanished into the murky waters. Instantly, icy pinpricks attacked his skin and this breath caught in his throat - the force of his fall had pushed him below the surface and his legs kicked frantically to push his body higher to take a precious gasp of air.

Lungs fully expanded, he let his body sink lower, prying his eyes open as the water surrounded him once more. The salt stung his eyes and he felt fit to burst as he frantically searched for a sign of the boy. Bubbles swirled around, obscuring his vision; he needed to breathe.

Another flash of pink to his right, a flicker of a white shirt, just within arm's reach…

A second later, his fingers were grasping a limp arm, tugging it towards him, his hook arm wrapping around Jack's waist as he started beat his legs against the heaviness of the ocean - their muscles burning and crying out for respite as he broke through the surface with a wheezing gasp.

Killian wiped the salty water from his eyes and then stared up at the hull of the Jolly - the rope that was anchoring him to it rippling in the breeze. He began to wonder how he would pull them both up; him with one hand and carrying a dead weight, when he suddenly saw the smiling face of the ship's sail maker, Dicken, leaning over the gunwale.

"Cap'n, grab a hold, I'll get yeh up!"

Dicken disappeared for a second; Killian tightened his grip on both Jack and the rope, steeling himself for the inevitable tug as they were hauled up.

It took less than a minute before the two were falling onto the deck of the ship. Killian first, tumbling in a damp mess with Jack following his path onto his chest before rolling to one side.

Quick footsteps announced the older man's approach, "Cap'n…"

Jack suddenly began to cough, bringing up a mouthful of water before lapsing once more into unconsciousness.

"Help me,"ordered Killian, taking hold of Jack's arms as Dicken took hold of the boy's legs. Killian nodded towards the hatch to his cabin and the two stumbled towards it, not stopping to pass a glance or a word.

Inside the small room, the limp body was lifted onto the narrow bed.

With a creased brow, Killian looked over the silent body. Pale skin, drenched hair and clothing.

He could see it now- how could he have not noticed before? The high cheekbones and the soft, full lips, round eyes lined by long, dark lashes.

A woman.

Suddenly aware that he was not alone, he spun around and faced Dicken.

"Dicken-"

"Tis no worry sir, I can 'old me tongue."

Killian nodded silently, moistening his lips and looking back at fragile figure whose skin was turning an unearthly pale shade as he watched.

There was a sweat on her brow and her lips were beginning to mumble incoherent words.

"Tis the salt captain, she must 'ave swallowed quite the lot."

"Indeed,"nodded Killian as he reached out to wipe a rolling bead of seawater from her cheek, "Dicken, fetch rags, some ale and a bucket of fresh water from my stock."

Dicken nodded and turned to leave when Killian caught his shoulder and pulled him back, staring him deep in the eye, "Not a word, sailor, I will deal with this on my own terms."

"Aye sir,"the old man agreed before hurrying from the cabin.

Killian looked back at the stranger sprawled out on his bed. She was shivering violently - the dampness of her clothing was chilling her. He knew she would become even sicker if he didn't act quickly.

Tugging off her boots, he wrestled with the saturated heavy cotton of her pants and peeled away her linen shirt until she was left just in long underwear and the bandage around her chest that he had glimpsed earlier that morning. Her frame was so small and delicate, he wondered how he had ever been fooled.

She began to toss and turn her head from side to side. Killian reached into his dresser and pulled out a thick woolen blanket and covered her body, tucking it underneath her so she was cocooned in its embrace.

And then he waited.

* * *

Light and dark shapes flickered across her eyelids.

Alternating between burning and shivering, she felt sweat soak her skin, sticking her body to the sheets she lay on. The salty tang of seawater lingered on her lips and clung to the back of her throat. Hot and cold flashes ran across her skin, her head felt heavy and painful - as if her skull was cracking from the inside.

Then, in a moment, everything faded away.

She was astride Honey, back home in the Enchanted Forest. The sun was warm against her skin, the smell of the morning dew clung to her nostrils as she galloped between the ancient, towering trees.

Her long skirts brushed against bare legs as her hair tumbled down her back. It was familiar and delicious and comforting. How she had missed this-

But then it was gone. Everything turned black.

She was alone. Scared.

Dark shadows were chasing her. They knew who she was. They snapped at her heels and entangled their snaking fingers in her hair - pulling her back and further into their emptiness-

Crying out, her eyes flew open.

"Wha- what…"she panted, her fingers balling in the sheets below her as her feet kicked at their heavy woolen prison.

"Shhhhh."

"Where am I,"she mumbled, her eyelids flickering closed again as she threatened to slip into unconsciousness once more.

"You are safe, on board the ship,"came the quiet reply.

_Ship? On board? _

A wave of memories crashed against her soul, the past few months flashing by in seconds.

"Water," she croaked. Her throat was dry and scratching - as if she had swallowed something sharp and it was lodged in place.

A warm hand enveloped her own, pressing into it a heavy, metallic tankard and supporting it as she brought it to her lips and sank back the lukewarm water as if it were the finest nectar a body had ever consumed.

It trickled into her belly - sating the dry ache a little while the moisture took away the salty taste on her tongue. Her head rolled back onto the thin pillow where it lay. "What-what happened," she managed to ask between shaking breaths. Her heart was racing and she felt slightly faint as she tried to sit up.

"Lie down, you are still quite ill."

A firm palm pressed gently against her shoulder and she gave up her resistance, sinking back down to lie. The tankard was placed back in her hand and a cool rag placed on her forehead. "You nearly drowned."

Drowned?

And then she remembered jumping overboard. Running from the cabin. And why she had ran.

He knew.

"Please…Please…" She opened her eyes again and her vision was blurry for a few seconds until the captain's face came into focus. Using her feet, she tried to push herself further away from him, but her weak legs were useless. "Don't hurt me," she whispered, her voice trembling.

She could see him clearly now. He was sat by the bed on the chair that usually was beside his desk. The cabin was dark - was it night already? A lantern was hung from the ceiling and it swung gently with the motions of the ship, its light dancing over his skin and stretching strange shadows as he looked down at her. Her stomach clenched: his face was blank. Was he mad? What would he do? Panic clawed at her from inside, like a wild animal trying to escape, and she froze, eyes wide.

"Hurt you?"

He smiled. It was a peculiar smile, not warm or caring, not menacing - confused perhaps?

"For my lies, sir," she explained, dampening her lips with her tongue - she could still taste the salt and it turned her stomach. She began to shake a little.

"Yes, you have some explaining to do-?" He raised a quizzical brow as a wave of exhaustion passed over her.

"Emma," she sighed, "My name is Emma."

"Well, Jack would have been a rather peculiar name for a woman."

Cool dread began to seep through her aching body - now he knew. Her ruse had been discovered and she was adrift in the middle of an ocean with one of the most feared pirates that had ever sailed.

"Well, Emma, I have not quite decided what will happen with you yet. You have provided me with quite the conundrum."

"I beg your forgiveness captain," she whispered, tears stinging her eyes.

So this was it. She had been discovered and now her fate seemed set.

"I think apologies are a little late now, love."

He leaned closer, his hooked arm resting on the bed as he nodded towards the cup in her hand, "Drink up, you swallowed a lot of seawater."

Silently she took a sip, keeping her eyes on him as she gratefully swallowed more of the delicious water.

"Now, I think you need to explain to me why you have been galavanting around my ship for the past month disguised as a boy, when," his eyes dropped to the shape of her body outlined by the blanket, "You are clearly not."

His gaze made her feel hot. She felt her cheeks redden.

"I was running away-" she sucked back a deep breath, "I had to escape from my home."

"Family problems?"

"Something like that. I knew the sea was the best way to cover a large distance and quickly."

"And the disguise?"

Feeling stronger, she shuffled a little higher in the bed, relaxing just a little. Resting her head against the small wooden headboard, she looked they captain straight in the eye, attempting to project a countenance of confidence and bravery.

"Um…"

She hesitated. He couldn't know of her true identity. She may just escape with her life as things currently stood, but if he knew she was royalty she was certain that he would want to take advantage.

"A woman travelling alone is suspicious, captain."

He nodded, seemingly accepting her words.

"Fair enough."

He stood silently.

"Captain - please, tell me what you are going to do with me? I deserve to know that."

"Sleep," he ordered, taking the tankard from her weak grasp, "I need to think."

The unsettled sensation in her stomach flared once more. She was thankful when exhaustion overwhelmed her once more and the room once again turned black.

* * *

_A woman._

She had led him on a merry dance these past few weeks, hiding her identity-

No, he thought, not quite.

Killian looked out across the empty, lonely water, lit only by the gleaming light of the full moon that seemed extraordinarily large in the sky tonight.

If he was honest with himself, he had known something was strange about him… her.

When he had first seen her bravery, offering her life for that of the young boys, he had been drawn to - her.

_Her._

That day he had spent many hours by the bed, waiting for her to wake. His initial shock at the discovery had been first replaced by anger.

No one makes a fool of Captain Jones. He had shaken her body, as it lay there lifelessly - refusing to wake herself, demanding answers.

He told those who asked that Jack was sick when he had returned to the deck to give orders for the day, having changed his own salt-ridden clothing with a fresh set. He did not want his men to be privy to her ruse and his own deception.

When he had returned to the cabin, his anger had abated slightly. The small, sickly figure of the girl seemed lost in his bunk. She was tossing and turning, mumbling of forests and shadows and, every so often, she called for her mother.

With a damp rag, he had wiped the sweat from her face, using it to trace the curves of her high cheekbones - so clearly feminine he felt foolish for allowing himself to believe otherwise. Her short, golden hair, fanned out on the pillow, just scraping her delicate shoulders.

In another time - another place - he would have said she was quite beautiful. But the sallow skin of sickness had taken away any pretty sheen of youth. Instead of allowing himself to admire her, he felt an involuntary wave of pity for this young woman.

And now she had awoken, had spoken to him in her true, soft, voice, his compassion for her tale had increased.

She was a little like he, in a way, running, searching for something. She, an escape from an unwanted life, him vengeance for a taken one.

Sipping on his flask of rum, he resolved to conceal her from the crew; as much to protect her as to protect his reputation. He would make sure Dicken was well compensated from their next haul too to ensure his silence. Things would continue as much they had until they reached a suitable port and he would send this Emma on her way.

Yes, allowing her safe passage was the right thing to do. The only thing to do.

* * *

Emma was awake and upright when he returned, sipping on the ale he had left by her.

"Captain-" she gasped quietly; he saw her start a little and draw her legs up to her chest.

"Be calm, lass, I am not here to harm you."

Her shoulders sagged a little and he dragged the chair back to the bed before offering her some of the salted meat he had brought for their supper.

"Are you feeling well?" he asked.

"A little," she whispered, pulling the blanket tighter around her when it slipped to reveal a few inches of bare shoulder. It suddenly occurred to him that perhaps she was feeling a little exposed.

"Would you like some dry garments?"

The lass nodded and Killian slipped to her cabin, coming back with a shirt and breeches.

He handed them to her, then stood by the bed.

"Could you-?" Her eyes flickered over her body and he cleared his throat in understanding, turning his back to her and stepping to his desk.

An awkward silence settled. Clothing and blankets rustled as she changed.

Killian glanced at the small mirror on his desk, just in time to see a flash of beautiful, soft skin of her back as she slid off her still damp long johns and pulled on the breeches.

His heart caught in his throat a little.

God, she was a fine woman. A firm curve to her buttocks rising to a small, delicate waist. He had a sudden urge to touch her that he quickly squashed by biting on his tongue.

It had been a long time since he had enjoyed a woman so fine.

Shaking away those thoughts, he asked, "A question, lass, can't you swim?"

He heard her settle back on the bed and he tentatively turned around to see her sitting upright, more familiar now in those manly clothes. Though, now of course, there was no hiding the femininity her features held so well.

"Of course, captain. But it was cold, and I panicked…"

She gave him a weak smile and he raised his brows in amusement. "Diving off a ship in the middle of the ocean is not perhaps the most astute idea in any circumstance."

"I was scared," she admitted, playing nervously with the buttons of her shirt as Killian sat, "I've heard so many stories of the dreaded Captain Hook to make me acutely aware of what you are capable."

This honesty was refreshing.

"Stories are just that love, stories."

"But surely, some must be true. Everyone knows your crew are ruthless, taking what they want, whoever stands in their path vanquished easily. Indeed, the manner of my joining your crew served only to strengthen my belief in these tales."

"And where do you think these rumors originate, love?," he paused for a second as her brow crumpled, "Me, mostly of course."

"You?" she asked, puzzled, her head cocking slightly to he left.

"Fear is a powerful tool," he began, standing slowly and walking to the foot of the bed, "A reputation as bloodthirsty pirate is surprisingly effective in encouraging surrender. And it is far easier to take my quarry without resistance."

"So, it's all - it's all _lies_?"

"Mostly," he quipped, "But as you saw occasionally a captain is rather foolish and my men, well, they are pirates."

"Oh," she sighed. Her mind awhirl with thoughts- trying to decipher the lines between what was fact and what was fiction.

"Have I disappointed you? I assure you I can be ruthless when required."

Leaning over the bed, he gave her a menacing smile and felt a little dart of pleasure when she sucked in a quick breath before she turned away to look out of the small, cabin windows.

"So then, what is to become of me? Have you decided?" Her voice wavered sightly as she asked, fear rippling through each word.

Rounding the bed, Killian sank to sit on its edge, the mattress dipping slightly causing her to roll a little closer to him. He stared at her for a moment - taking in her pretty green eyes and defiant set chin. He couldn't deny she intrigued him.

"I am a man of honor, lass and also consider myself to be a reasonable captain. That said, you have lied to me. Luckily for you, that lie is not something I wish to become common knowledge with my crew. So I propose, you continue as before, perhaps with a little more caution when mixing with the crew, and once we reach a suitable port we will part ways and that will be the end of this."

"Really?" she asked, eyes wide.

"I have no reason to lie."

"And-and I'll be safe?"

The lass's eyelids flickered lower and her cheeks reddened. Amused, he understood her question quickly, and placed his arms on the bed so he was nearer to her face.

"As tempting a treat as you would be," he smirked, "I have more important issues to worry about as things stand. I think it would be best for the both of us if we execute this plan with the minimum of… distractions."

"Of course…"

"Now, are you well enough to return to your own quarters? It is late and you have occupied a great deal of my time today."

She nodded, and he moved to the side to let her slip from the bed, her legs shaking as her bare feet reached the floor until she was stood beside him. The tang of salt clung to her mixed with something sweetly feminine and he inhaled, sinking in her scent as she straightened her clothes.

"Goodnight captain. And - thank you."

Killian watched her feet walk away when he remembered the boots at the foot of his bed. Scooping them up with his hook, he took a few steps and grabbed her shoulder, spinning her round.

The force of his movement had her tumbling into his chest. She paused and looked up at him. His mouth went dry for a second as he forgot what he was doing.

There was an undeniable force tugging between them - a tension that had came from nowhere and disappeared just as suddenly as he pushed the boots into her hand and she mumbled her thank you.

When the door closed, he slumped to his bed. It smelled like her, he noticed absentmindedly.

Loosening his clothing, he felt his own tiredness overwhelm him and sleep arrive.

Sleep punctuated by dreams of green eyes and golden hair.

_**As ever reviews are welcomed, encouraged and appreciated.**_


	9. Emma

She was okay.

He was going to let her go.

Tumbling along the dark corridor, she struggled to comprehend what had just occurred. Still weak, she clutched at the walls when the world began to spin, resting her head against the rough wood as she caught her breath.

It was the antithesis to every story, tale or whisper she had heard about a pirate: that she should have walked out of his cabin with not only her life, but with her honor intact. She said a silent prayer as she collected her thoughts and pushed open the stiff door to her cabin - its hinges whining in protest. Moving slowly, she dragged her aching body inside, tossing her boots to the floor before slumping onto her hammock with a sigh of relief.

He had been actually reasonable. Emma rolled her eyes in disbelief as she looked out the small window of her cabin, at shimmering face of the full moon that was smiling down at her from the sky - almost as if he were in on her secret.

Laughing seemed an appropriate response right now, and she chuckled as some of the tension that had lain on her shoulders since she had first awoken and realized her secret was out, dissipated. The chuckle turned into a light peal of laughter - the most feminine she had allowed herself to be for months - that echoed around the small room until her belly began to ache from the effort.

She was safe, for now. For if there was one element that overrode every pirate tale she had heard, was that for the most part, they could not be trusted. However, she took some solace in the understanding that the captain was as keen to keep her secret as she. It seemed that appearances and reputation were of paramount importance on board such a vessel as the Jolly Roger.

Despite having slept for most of the day, she found sleep easily took her once again within its grasp. The nightmares of earlier were not repeated, in fact, she could not remember any of her dreams at all come the morning light.

Perhaps, she mused as she woke, this was a symbol of a new beginning.

Danger was not yet gone from her situation. But an uneasy sense of expectation for the future was starting to appear. The feeling of being on edge and having to hide was becoming tiresome, and, was frankly untenable. She actually missed being herself, being Emma.

Onward she must go once this chapter of her life closed. It was time to leave Jack behind. Certainly she was far enough away from home that the likelihood of discovery was minimal.

Time to start afresh.

* * *

The following day, the captain called on her only once. He made no mention of the prior evening's conversation, or the events that occurred before it, as he set out orders for a small reorganization of his cabin and directed her to prepare a bath for him that evening.

Nodding curtly, he had quickly exited the room and left her alone to undertake the minor chores - which, in reality, seemed more designed to keep her out of his presence rather than any real need for the task.

Still weak, her breathing was still a little difficult, and it was past midday by the time she had changed his bed linens, moved a small cupboard and swept and shook out the large rug that covered half of the floor.

Tired, she perched on the edge of the bed and opened up the small window latch that allowed a gust of clean air into the room.

She took a moment to reflect on her earlier thoughts.

What would she do now? Where would she go? What direction would her life take?

Her future stretched forward like a fresh white piece of parchment, the pen of fate held aloft, ready to mark her destiny in its fine hand once the fates had decided what it held.

But no, she thought, shaking her head as she relatched the window and moved to tidy away the captains clothes. Now she would make her own fate - it was in no ones control but her own.

She ran her fingers along the soft, gauzy linen of his shirt as she folded it and placed it in the aging chest of drawers he used. It seemed as much a symbol of him as his hook or reputation, she mused. Never in the weeks she had been aboard had she seen him wear another color or style. It was like a uniform, or even armor, perhaps.

What a curious man, she sighed. Such an enigma as would have occupied her greatly had he ever come to court. She would have spent hours studying his attire and poise, eavesdropping on his conversations and concocting a variety of wild and outrageous stories of his life.

Yes, she thought as she slammed the drawer shut, a man such as him certainly warranted such attentions.

* * *

Dicken helped to fill the bath just as twilight arrived. The old man had lugged most of the buckets of warm water from the galley and had surprised Emma with his strength and perseverance.

His earlier greeting of 'Y'all right, Jack?" accompanied by a wink of his twinkling eyes, had made her smile when she had found him at work mending a large sheet of canvas. Without asking, he had came to assist her with her hardest task - first dragging the tine bath into the captains cabin and then helping to slowly fill the tub, a tedious process at the best of times.

When the final bucket of water was emptied, Dicken collected the empty receptacles and made to leave as Emma readied the captain's towel and soap.

"Thank you Dicken," she smiled shyly. "For everything."

"You 'ave nothin' t' thank me for. Just promise an' ol' sailor one ting?"

"Anything."

"Be careful out there, lass. The world ain't always a good t' those it shud b'."

"I promise," she agreed, her heart warming at the obvious affection the old man held for her. Her grandparents had died long ago, but she presumed that, had they lived, they would have treated her in much the same way.

The sailmaker left as quickly and nimbly as his aged legs allowed and within a few minutes the door opened again and the captain returned. Immediately he began to shed his coat and vest, tossing them aside as she watched.

His hands began to reach for the hem of his shirt, tugging it free and beginning to raise it over his stomach until she coughed lightly, clearing her throat until he looked in her direction. Her breath caught; the linen was raised, giving a tantalizing glimpse of a trail of dark hair that dipped seductively into the waistband of his leather trousers. She couldn't stop staring. His sun darkened skin - well, the few inches she could see - was taut, the bones of his hips accented with a v-shaped muscle.

"Oh-" he began, dropping the material and then raising his hand to rub against the scruff of his chin. "Perhaps-" he looked towards the door and she nodded, feeling a wave of relief as she started to walk past the captain to the room's exit.

As she walked past the tempting, clean water of the tub, her eyes lingered. Suddenly she felt keenly the salt and sweat and grime that layered her skin. How long had it been since she had bathed? Not since she had left the castle. She let out a small gasp at the realization, her shoulders pinching as she felt her skin crawl with weeks of accumulated dirt.

"Are you okay?" he quizzed, pausing mid task as he pulled loose the thick leather belt he always wore.

Emma hesitated. There was a moment of silence, only punctuated by the heavy droplets of rain that had began to lash against the window of the cabin. Her hand rose to scratch at her salt ravaged hair. She looked around the room - wondering if she dared tell him.

"I-" she began, before shaking her head and making for the door, "No sir, I am fine. Sorry."

"Lass," the captain said in a surprisingly soft tone, taking a step in her direction - making her flinch backward a little in anticipation of his touch. But he paused a few feet away, lowering his voice, "What is it?"

She flicked her lids closed and screwed up her face a little - tightening her features in anticipation of his expected retort at her revelation, "I haven't bathed in months," she admitted, the words tumbling out so fast as to almost become one.

"Ahh," he sighed in response, nonchalantly folding his arms as she peeled open her eyes.

"But that is no concern of yours," she quickly added, blushing at her unintended openness.

"Perhaps not," he nodded, "But I am not an unmoved by the fate of a damsel in distress."

Her cheeks burned, and she looked down, studying the crooked timbers of the floor. "Are you mocking me?"

"That was not-" he began, his voice trailing off into a sigh, "I mean to say, there are waters enough for two-"

"I could never, captain!" she cried, her eyes widening in shock at his insinuation that they share a bath.

"No, no," he laughed, shaking his hand in front of his face, allowing his chuckles to settle before he continued, "You may quickly bathe first, cleanse yourself. I have no desire to make you uncomfortable. As pleasurable as such a scenario may be."

"Really?" she retorted, ignoring his last comment.

"Yes," he admitted, "But the offer stands for just this moment so-"

"I accept," she smiled, feeling a giddy rush of excitement - she would be clean!

"Fine," he nodded. "The weather is poor on deck so I will need to remain here-"

"Captain-" she whispered, her chin trembling.

Chuckling again, he reached into the small leather trunk near the door and pulled out a large, woolen blanket. Wordlessly he began to attach it to the small, metal hooks that were lined neatly along the edges of the ceiling.

"See lass?" he sighed, as finally the room were split in two, "To protect your modesty."

Surprise and relief came in spades. Perhaps he had been truthful the day prior. Maybe his talk of honour was not just lip service.

"Thank you."

He gave a brief bow and ducked under the makeshift curtain where she heard him pull the chair from his desk and the subsequent shuffling of papers.

Peeling away her well worn garments with relish and sighing in comfort when the bandage that bound her chest was removed, she eagerly slipped into the water.

Bliss.

* * *

He tried to concentrate on the charts in front of him. The next leg of their journey was possibly the most perilous as they passed by many small rocky islands and areas of strong currents. A clear, safe route was vital.

But it was not easy.

Too many distractions.

The tug and slide of clothes against skin.

The soft splash of a body entering water (and the delicate sigh that accompanied it).

The gentle tricking sound of water being pooled and cupped.

The rubbing sound of soap as it lathered and slid.

His eyes flickered to the blanket. The briefest of shadows shone through the thick material. The tub was parallel to it - her small body was mostly hidden in the spacious bath, but her head and shoulders (and a slight curvy breast) were visible.

Shifting in his chair, he tried to focus.

The lines of the map blurred. Every minute or so, he turned to take a glimpse at the partition. His heart was thudding a little. It had been a long time since a woman had bathed in his quarters (or been in his quarters for that matter- his dalliances where usually confined to shore. Much easier that way.)

He shook his head a few times. Digging in his pocket he pulled out his rum and took a drink.

It was distracting. She was humming now. Some little ballad that was vaguely familiar.

More sloshing of water and soap slapping against skin. He groaned inwardly, chastising himself for being so affected - he who so prized himself on his self control.

Nimbly, his fingers rolled the maps and pushed them to the back of the desk. Digging his feet down onto the floor, he pushed back his chair with a loud scrape - he heard her start.

"Captain?"

Gods, her voice was melodic in these unguarded moments.

"Captain?" she asked again, her voice trembling a little.

"Yes lass," he whispered in reply.

She said nothing, but he heard her sink deeper in the tub.

He needed to fill the silence.

Picking up his copy of Gulliver's Travels, he thumbed through a few pages, before he began to read. His voice low and deep, filling the cabin with its unique timbre.

It helped block out these thoughts of her.

Helped, but was not entirely successful.

* * *

When he started to read, she had froze at first, but then the tension had melted into a smile as she listened to his melodic voice caress the familiar words. It was comforting, being read to. It was something her mother had done every night - even when she had reached her teen years.

Before she had disappeared, that is.

She allowed herself to doze a little, before working some of the soap in her hair, massaging her fingers against her scalp as he continued to read.

She was unsure whether it was for her benefit or his, but all the same she was grateful. It was, perhaps, the most normal she had felt in a long time. Clean and comforted by a story shared.

When he became silent, she knew it was time for this moment to end. Reluctantly she pulled herself from the water, ready to become Jack again.

For now anyway.

* * *

He had read until the words blurred in front of him and he had to stop.

It seemed she had understood.

As she stood, the water tricked down her body into the tub. He looked again.

His breath caught at the hazy line of her form. Curved and feminine - so hidden before beneath loose clothing. An urge to pull back the curtain and look at her - bare - came over him. Being so close to such feminine beauty was a cruel kind of torture for a man so starved of female attention.

Oh, he had had his fair share of women in his time. Drunken wenches and bar whores were easy to find and charm with a bottle of rum or a few coins.

But, hell, he longed for the feminine touch of one who cared more for him than his name or the contents of his purse. To run his fingers over smooth skin, for a coy smile on a pretty lasses lips, for a hand curled in his hair and a soft body lain against his own-

Torture of a peculiar kind indeed.

Finally, clothed but with her damp hair hanging softly around her face, she dipped around the curtain and gave him a coy smile and a nod.

"Thank you," she said again.

"You don't have to keep thanking me lass," he sighed.

"I feel the need," she replied, tucking her hair behind her ears. "You are being surpassingly cordial, for all my deceit."

"I can be a reasonable man."

"Yes, yes you can," she smiled.

It was a lovely smile. Bright and full, he had to hold back a smile of reciprocation.

He stepped away a little. She was too close. But then he hesitated - maybe…

"Your company is not unwelcome lass. A lonely sailor can become rather insular. An educated companion is rare. Should you wish to read or engage in discourse some evenings - I would not be averse to your company."

She seemed surprised, her brows raised. It was a quizzical, humorous expression that made him bite back a reply.

"That's very generous captain, I'd be happy to sit with you some nights."

Killian nodded.

"In return - perhaps in these times away from the crew - you may use my given name. Rather than lass I mean."

"Emma?" he asked.

"Yes," she smiled, "I'm not sure if it will ever by a name I can be known by again, but it would be nice to use it, one more time at least."

"Emma it is then," he agreed, giving a small bow as she swept past him to leave the cabin.

* * *

Later, in the now lukewarm water, he was taken over by a singular thought of her body, lain where his was, of her soft voice and pretty smile.

Of Emma.

_**Thank you for the lovely reviews! Please keep letting me know what you think?**_


	10. Checkmate

**A/N - just a few warnings. This chapter veers into M territory for sexual themes and language. It also features an attempted assault on a woman, so if that is a trigger for you please be advised.**

"Check,"Killian smiled, moving the rook to the clear white square beside the black king.

He looked up. Emma was frowning, her brow lined in concentration as she studied the ebony and ivory pieces in front of them. Her tongue slipped out a little between her lips and her hand hovered over the board until, softly clucking her tongue, she swiftly drew the black knight into play, flicking Killian's fated rook to one side with a delicate finger.

"Touché,"the pirate whispered and she responded with a one-sided smile that brought out the small dimples in her cheeks. "I must ask, where did you learn to play so well?"

She had picked up the felled piece and was rolling the cylindrical object between finger and thumb, "It was –is, I guess - my father's favorite game. Ever since I can remember, he would sit me on his lap as he played, teaching me, telling me over and over, 'strategy, Emma, strategy'." She wagged her finger as she spoke, looking up at Killian as she dropped the chess piece to the table with a light clatter.

"Strategy is essential in life,"he nodded, holding her gaze for a second longer than was needed before pulling away and taking a mouthful of ale from his tankard. "Your father sounds wise."

"Perhaps,"the lass agreed with a slight grimace, "But as a six year old child, you can see the lesson was not quite appreciated."

And she laughed, just a little, but enough. It was a pretty, melodic laugh - light and carefree - that lit up her face. The rise of her lips lifted her cheekbones even higher and a light flush bloomed on her cheeks.

She looked almost pretty, he thought, despite her roughly cropped hair and the oversized male shirt that swamped her frame.

In these rare, unguarded moments over the past few weeks, he had come to ponder upon this Emma. An invitation to converse and relax in his cabin had become a regular occurrence. To begin with, she had taken to sitting to one side with a volume from his bookcase. Gradually, she had inched closer to where he sat at his desk, making casual remarks about the maps he studied or suggesting the next book he should read, until the conversation between them had flowed as easily as any river. In all, he had ample opportunity to observe this strange young woman, who through either bravery or foolishness had submitted herself to the dangers of the wider world.

She was a curious thing, he had decided. The separation between her persona as 'Jack'and the real girl Emma was becoming more apparent every day. The meter and pitch of her voice when it was just the two of them was almost hypnotizing. It had been so long since he had enjoyed a woman's company and soft tones for longer than a night. He had forgotten how much he had missed it. Resigned, as he was, to a solitary life, he had tried to close that part of him off to the world - the part that craved more than a lonely life at sea.

She was knowledgeable, he'd found, and witty too. Her sphere of information included quite the detailed study of law and politics. They had debated on the merits of collaboration between kingdoms and the effectiveness of piracy laws (here, their opinions had differed somewhat). She had held him at every point and on one occasion, a few days earlier, their discourse had lasted almost 'til the sun had risen.

Her company was becoming something he sought with relish. Her ease of manners and educated tongue were a welcome respite from the more debasing aspects of life on board a ship of men.

Killian was almost reminded of what his life may have been - even the kind of woman he may have loved - had life not chosen him a different fate.

"Captain?"

"Mmm?" He murmured, broken from his thoughts.

There was a puzzled look on her face, her brow lightly crinkled, "I asked if you wished to continue this tomorrow. The hour is late."

He picked up the small mantle clock that sat on his desk. It was old and somewhat unreliable after being jostled through many a storm, but it served its purpose. The delicate black hands showed it was around midnight. Placing the clock back down, he sighed softly.

"Yes Emma, that is a good idea."

As she made to stand, Killian automatically pushed back his chair. She gasped lightly at his formal gesture. Silently he cursed himself: he had almost forgotten the true nature of their discourse - almost imagined that he was once again a gentlemen, not a pirate, and she a lady who should be afforded all possible courtesies. He paused, mid bow, slowly straightening his back and offering a small smile of apology. She blushed, dipping her head and sinking her body slightly in a small curtsey.

"Goodnight sir,"she whispered as she left.

"Goodnight Emma,"he replied, her name lingering on his lips as the door closed behind her.

A vague sense of loss came over him as he absentmindedly picked up the fallen rook. It was cool to the touch. He ran his thumb over the grooves in the pieces surface, remembering her cradling it in her palm only minutes earlier.

Until tomorrow, he thought as he returned it to the desk.

Tomorrow they would continue their game.

* * *

Some days she wasn't sure who she was any more. First, she had been Emma: a princess and lady of leisure. Then, the persona of Jack and became her own - living like a boy for months, she'd almost forgotten her feminine side. But now, she was Jack during the daylight hours and Emma once more in the privacy of their cabins. It was enough to make the head spin and on more than one occasion she had almost forgotten herself in front of the other crew.

It was a strange kind of half freedom which she now enjoyed. Yet still, despite all his familiarity, she never let herself forget that Captain Jones was a pirate.

The morning after their game of chess, she was helping Dicken stretch out a canvas. The sun on deck was bright and tantalizingly warm on the skin. Dicken was telling her bawdy tales of his life as a young sailor, making her laugh and hide her blushes behind her cap.

At the wheel, the captain stood. His hook tacked around one of the spindles, staring out to the blank canvas of sea ahead with the barest hint of a smile on his face. He looked handsome when he smiled, Emma thought. It lightened his features and lifted the heaviness of his brow where he often seemed to bear the weight of a lifetime.

He should smile more, she decided as she tugged and flexed the stiff material. Then she realized, with some surprise, that he had been recently. Perhaps not in public - not amongst the men, or on deck, but during those hours spent behind the door of his cabin, that smile had become more apparent. He would laugh when she told him of some of the scrapes that she had gotten into during her first forays dressed as a boy. He gently chided her when she made some remark about politics with which he disagreed ('Now, is that the way for a lass to think?'he would say). But most telling of all, was the way his lips curved softly when a silence fell in the cabin - when she was engrossed in a book and he thought she wasn't aware that he was watching her. These secret smiles warmed her belly and sent prickly tingles down her spine.

Finished with her task, she brushed her palms on her trousers, the light grease of the canvas leaving streaks on the material. "Dinner later, Dicken?"she asked.

"Aye, Jack, I'd like that."

* * *

The chess board was eagerly produced once she entered the cabin that evening - after her customary three knocks on the door and his formal reply of 'enter'.

"I see you have not forgotten, Captain,"Emma smiled, as she pulled a three legged stool towards his desk.

"I never forget a challenge,"he replied before taking a sip of rum from his flask. "Drink?"he asked.

Normally, Emma would say no. After the drunken night which had let to the uncovering of her true gender, she had steadfastly avoided rum. But today - maybe it was the smile on his face, or the good mood in her belly - she grasped the outstretched flask and took a long draw. "Mmmm,"she murmured, the familiar alcohol descended pleasurably into her gut.

"Shall we?"the captain asked, gesturing to the game with a flourish of his hand.

"Ready to be whipped, Captain?"she teased. He cocked a brow at her and she blushed a little, dropping her head to scan the board.

"We'll see,"he replied.

The game quickly advanced in-between sips of rum and a swell of confidence on her part. She felt freer that she had in such a long time. The banter tumbled easily from her lips as she let herself indulge in the fantasy that her life was different - that they had met under different circumstances and their time together was less a matter of intrigue and more one of equal minds meeting.

The competition was tense. More than once, check was called.

"Come now Captain, surely you concede?"

Killian chortled in reply, reaching over the board to move his bishop into play. "Never."

His voice was low and soft and he looked across the board at her, through the veil of his lashes. Emma couldn't hide her smile. She reached out to move her queen into check, but she was too quick for his fingers and for a second they brushed together. Emma yanked back her hand in shock, heart racing as a shiver of electricity raced up her arm and down her spine.

She quickly looked back at him. He was staring at her. His hand still lingered over the board - his lips parted and head tilted slightly to the side. Her mouth felt dry and her cheeks hot.

"Sorry,"she whispered, clenching her fist and drawing it to her chest.

The captain's eyes scanned over the girl's face - as if he was looking for something, but she had no idea what. A surge of confusion came over her. No man had ever regarded her in the way the captain was doing so in that moment; like she were some kind of puzzle that he longed to conquer. His brows were pinched together in concentration as he leaned forward slightly and sucked in a breath as though he were about to speak-

"Forgive me, Captain-"she blurted out as she abruptly stood, jostling the table and knocking over some of the remaining pieces in play.

"Emma-" he began, as he rose a little from his seat, reaching out his hand as she awkwardly tried to right the pieces on the board.

"It's late,"she replied, stepping back slightly.

"Emma,"he repeated. She gasped a little when his hand reached out and took hers in a light, but strong, grasp. She felt her heart race against her breastbone and an unfamiliar quickening in her belly. She had been touched many times by a man - in many more intimate ways - but for some reason, this simple gesture invoked in her a more violent response of unbridled attraction than she had ever felt.

Could he tell? Could he hear her heartbeat? Feel her pulse race beneath her skin? Sense the way her body responded to his touch?

"You don't have to be afraid of me,"he continued, slowly releasing her hand.

"I'm not,"she told him as she grasped her hands behind her back and gave a small bow.

And she was only lying a little.

* * *

Her cheeks glowed scarlet when she let the door close behind her. She lay against the door jam and tried to catch her breath.

This was wrong. And dangerous too. Letting herself feel… whatever it was that had overcame her inside his cabin.

Her belly cramped a little at the memory of his hand brushing hers and the way their eyes had met - something had passed between them. But maybe she was imagining it…

She ambled the few steps to her own cabin, her hand finding the cold metal handle despite the blackness of the corridor. So preoccupied was she, that she didn't feel the arm that slipped around her waist and pushed her into the small room until it was too late - another firm hand was laid across her mouth and she was pressed firmly against the closed door.

"Well, well," came the cracked, broken voice of the intruder.

Her eyes strained in the faint light of the cabin - the only illumination from the small lantern that hung from the rafters. The hand on her mouth was callous and rough. The intruder was closer now. His breath stank of stale ale and she grimaced as she tried to compose herself and think. Emma struggled against his restraint, but he was strong and gripped her arms tightly above her head.

"Now what do we 'ave 'ere?" he growled.

Emma's eyes widened as she recognized the coarse tones of Porter. Her stomach clenched in fear. Why was he here? What was happening?

"Now love, I'm goin' t' let go of your mouth. Scream 'nd your dead."

She nodded lightly in response, not for a second thinking he was bluffing.

Porter lowered his hand, quickly pulling a short hilted knife from his jacket and pressing it against her throat.

"What do you want?" she asked quietly, trying to cover the fear in her voice.

"What do I want?" He let out a low, maniacal laugh. "Well, 'ows 'bout you start by tellin' me who you are?"

"Who am I?" she replied, pulling back from the blade which was tugging against her skin, "You know who I am. Are you drunk?"

Her attempt at bravado was rebuffed with a cruel smile and the pressing of forearm against her chest.

"You're as much a lad as I'm a king!"

He knew. How did he know?

Her mind raced.

"Now I know you are drunk," she huffed, turning away her head, desperately trying to think.

Porter leaned closer. His dank, hot breath was moist on her cheek. "Ave seen ya, lassie, wi' the captain on a night. I stood a'side and a 'eard you talkin'. 'E calls you 'Emma'."

Frantically, she scanned the room. He was pressed against her even tighter and she was under no illusion with what he planned to do with this new information.

"You're insane," she hissed in his ear.

"Only one way t' tell."

His face remained an inch from hers as he slowly dragged the dagger down the cotton of her shirt. The material ripped easily and cleanly. He bared his teeth to her - they were stained yellow and brown and some were absent from their positions.

She shivered at the cool air that was now glancing over her skin.

"Look what we 'ave 'ere…" he chuckled, running his thumb over the bandages that crisscrossed her chest, before pinching her flattened breast roughly with his hands. "I think you be lyin,' miss."

The dagger returned to her neck but she refused to look at him.

"So, you bin warming the captain's bed, 'ave you? He's a sneaky bastard that Jones. I thought it were strange, 'im 'avin' a cabin boy and all. Never had one afore."

Emma's breath was shaking. The point of the blade was piercing her skin and she felt a trickle of blood trail down her cheek.

"If you think I am the captain whore, then you are a fool to trifle with me," she bluffed.

He rolled his hips. The hardness in his trousers pressed against her and she felt physically sick.

"It's bin a while since I 'ad a woman, lassie," his hand released hers and tugged down the bandages a little until a breast was exposed. His snail-like tongue slid along his lips as he grabbed her roughly, squeezing her breast and then pulling down the rest of the bandages until she was bare from the waist up, "Such pretty little titties, love, shame to hide 'em."

Her chest ached at his crude touch. A sinking sensation of panic began to engulf her.

She needed to escape.

He bent down to latch onto her breast with his dry lips. She took her chance. Grasping his shoulders, she launched a stiff knee into his groin. Immediately he howled in pain, dropping back a step with a hand pressed between his legs.

"You little bitch," he hissed a second later, slapping her across the face, spinning her to one side and causing her to scream.

She pushed back from the corner of the room and clenched her fist, socking him in the jaw, catching him by surprise and he stumbled back, becoming quickly entangled in the hammock at the other side of the cabin.

Clutching the shreds of her shirt, she grabbed the cutlass she had kept hidden on the high shelf of the room for the past few weeks and held it out to him.

* * *

The noise from the next cabin roused him from his thoughts. He had remained frozen in one place since she had left. The feel of her hand in his still lingered on his skin. Her cautious smiles and dancing eyes were seared into his memory.

But it was all pushed aside at the sound of raised voices and a struggle.

Grabbing his sword, he dashed into the corridor. In a few steps, he was at the next cabin and with his fist he hammered on the dark wood.

The door was locked. Using his hip and shoulder, he reared back and forced his way inside. The wood splintered and he landed heavily inside, greeted by the sight of Porter staggering towards him.

"What in God's name-"

"He attacked me," came a voice from the side of the room. He spun his head to see Emma, her shirt in tatters, a short blade held out affront of her.

His eyes widened at the news. A wave of anger hit him - the edges of his vision turned dark and he pointed his sword at the errant crewman.

"Explain yourself," he hissed, advancing so that Porter had to step backwards to avoid the tip of the blade.

"Capin, you know 'ow it is… I got the urge-" he gestured to his hips, "An' then I foun' you were keepin' this lass 'ere… I mean t' say that Jack, is no Jack a' all…"

He gave Killian a small, nervous smile. He felt repulsed at the thought of Emma being touched by the ruffian in front of him. His stomach turned and his face twisted into a snarl.

"You have no right to touch what is not yours."

"And I belong to no one," Emma added, stepping closer and pressing her blade against his throat.

"Come on Captain, be reasonable 'ere. Is she a good fuck? We could share 'er…"

"You are a piece of scum, Porter, you know that?" Killian reached over and pulled him close to him, pressing his sword against the fleshy underside of his chin, forcing him to tilt up his head. "Give me one good reason why I should not end you, here and now?"

Porter's eyes widened in panic. Killian considered letting him go for a moment. Just for a moment.

The blade easily pierced his flesh. With a strangled moan, Porter struggled against the captain's strong grasp, his legs thrashing against the floor as the blood flowed down the steel onto his hand. His eyes bulged, frothy blood began to form at his mouth and Killian twisted the blade, "Please…" he moaned as he slid to his knees before finally collapsing in a heap.

It was silent for a moment. He'd almost forgotten that Emma stood at his side until he heard her gasp. Releasing his blade, he turned to her. She was shaking, her hands clutching her weapon so tightly her knuckles had turned white.

"You killed him-" she whispered, her eyes fixed on the lifeless body as his blood drained away and seeped into the wooden floor.

"Aye," Killian responded.

"But you didn't have to, you could have banished him-"

"Emma," he replied firmly, "He would give you away in an instant. I can protect you against one man - but a whole ship full..." His voice trailed off and a lump formed in his throat. The thought of what could have occurred if Porter had not been subdued - if the other men had found out…

'You killed him for me," she said. It was not a question, but more of a wonder. She loosened her grasp on the cutlass and let it fall to the ground.

"I did."

She seemed so small, so vulnerable as she stood with her arms pressed against her chest. He had an urge to pull her close, kiss her forehead and still her fear.

"You're bleeding," he whispered, his finger pressing against the small wound on her neck, "And your cheek," he added when he noticed the deep, purple bruise that as beginning to form where Porter had hit her.

"I'm fine," she insisted.

"No, you're not," Killian replied - not only talking about her physical wounds. "Come," he insisted, "Go to my cabin. I will have this attended to."

"Yes Captain," Emma nodded, silently slipping past him. He watched her go, the earlier feeling in his chest returning and assaulting him - the fear of her being hurt pressing him closer to some kind of revelation.

* * *

She sat on the small stool, waiting for him to return.

She heard the hushed voices of Smee and the captain then the sound of something being dragged. After a short while, the door opened and Captain Jones stepped inside, a small towel and a bowl of water in his hand.

"It is dealt with," he said as he walked to where she sat.

"Smee?"

"His silence was bought with gold. It will be said Porter was caught stealing from the hold. We will make a show of his body in the morning."

The captain smiled tentatively and Emma let out a sigh of relief. "Come now, let's tend to your wounds."

"It is really not necessary," Emma blushed as he sat beside her, dipping the cloth into the bowl.

"I insist," he whispered.

Emma held her breath as he brought the cool, damp cloth to the trickle of blood that lined her throat. Soft little strokes pressed against her skin. He leaned closer, nudging the lantern on his desk to afford him more light.

His touch was tender. Her eyelids had been tightly closed, but she let them open for a second only to be assaulted by his own blue eyes looking up at her.

"I suppose I should say thank you," she said, averting her gaze from his, feeling hot and uncomfortable under his gaze.

"No need," he replied as he placed the cloth back in the bowl before squeezing out the water that had been tainted a pinkish hue by the blood. "I told you, I'm a gentleman before all else."

The captain took hold of her chin. His hand was cold and he tilted her head so that the bruising on her cheek was lit by the lamp.

"Then I thank you for being a gentleman. But I must reason that I was dealing with my attacker quite well before you attended me."

Laughing in response, he sighed lightly, "I suppose you were, lass."

Gently he pressed the cloth against her cheek. The cold water instantly soothed the burn where Porter's hand had struck her. Emma moaned a little in satisfaction and pressed her cheek against the compress.

"I can take care of myself," she muttered, to herself, to him - she wasn't sure.

"Yes, yes you can…"

Something made her open her eyes again. It was an urge, a feeling she had never encountered before. Her skin felt warm and her chest light. The fingers that grasped at her shirt loosened and her shoulders rolled back a little.

Such a peculiar feeling.

His head was tilted to one side. With his palm, he held the compress against her cheek.

"Emma…"

"Yes?"

Closer he moved, the cloth falling from his hand into her lap. His thumb traced the edge of her jaw and his fingers threaded into the hair behind her ear. The sensation of his fingers touching the skin of her scalp sent her breathing into a shudder.

Still he gazed into her eyes. Still he seemed to be searching for something. She was scared - frozen into place but the hesitant excitement of what may come next made her part her lips.

With his hooked arm swung around her waist, he pulled her closer till she was sitting between his knees.

"Emma…" he repeated, and how she longed for him to move that extra inch - to place those soft pink lips against her own. It was as if she had never wanted anything greater than she wanted this in that moment. That in order for her to continue to breathe he must hold her, own her-

The kiss was tentative. He pressed his mouth against hers so gently she could barely feel it at first. arching her back, she kissed him back, cautiously at first - soft moist lips meeting each other in a meandering dance. Then the fire in her belly began to roar to life. His hand slipped to the back of her head and she sank forward until she was almost in his lap, wrapping her arms around his neck and running her tongue along the seam of his lips.

Inside her body was awhirl. She knew not what she was doing, only that she didn't want it to end. So that she grasped his shirt between her palms and held tight, as if should she let go the moment would not be real.

She had never been kissed like this. Nor, had she ever returned a man's touch with such zeal, such fervor…

When he broke away, she instantly mourned the loss, tumbling back to her stool with a start.

"I am sorry, I shouldn't have, I was carried away by the intimacy of this setting, I took advantage of you-"

_What? _she thought. Shame flooded her. It was a mistake to him. He hadn't meant to touch her. Clearly he did not feel the same way. His passions merely arisen by the blood he had drawn that night-

She blushed deeply, the shade as red as the crimson flag of the Jolly Roger. "I should go…" she whispered.

"I insist you stay,"he said, standing quickly and straightening his shirt, "Your cabin needs tending to and I have - matters to attend to."He gave her a curt bow and dashed from the room.

The world was spinning. Emma let her body slip to the floor, hoping it would provide some respite, but it was of little help. Instead the memories of all the evening's events hit her at once an overwhelmed, she fell into unconsciousness.

* * *

On deck, the wind was strong and the untethered ropes whipped against the sails. In the distant horizon he could make out land.

Killian walked over to the main mast, checking the fixings and running his palm over the cylindrical tower of wood. He stretched his palm as wide as he could against the mast and dug his hook into its other side before pressing his forehead against it - trying to will away the feelings that were stirring within him.

It could not be. He had sworn a life of solitude. Any other way brought pain and misery in the end.

He pushed harder, the groves of the wood pressing into his skin, the pain taking away a little of the ache inside him.

Turning his head, he looked up at the sky and cursed whatever nameless god had turned the hand of fate this way - that had crossed his path with that of this woman.

He was scared of himself.

Watching the brief clouds turn over his head, he resolved to quit the acquaintance and avoid her.

Any other way and he feared he would be in grave danger of recanting his vow.

**A/N Your reviews and feedback are wonderful and inspiring. Thank you for all your support with this fic.**


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